'tis Not Enough To Help The Feeble

Let Still Woman Take An Elder Than Herself: So Wears She To Him, So Sways She Level In Her Husband's Heart, For, Boy, However We Do Praise Ourselves, Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner To Be Lost And Warn, Than Women's Are.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

Let Me, If Not By Birth, Have Lands By Wit; All With Me's Meet That I Can Fashion Fit.

I Am Sure Care's An Enemy To Life.

When My Love Swears That She Is Made Of Truth, I Do Believe Her, Though I Know She Lies.