Well, If Fortune Be A Woman, She's

Tut, Man, One Fire Burns Out Another's Burning; One Pain Is Less'ned By Another's Anguish; Turn Giddy, And Be Holp By Backward Turning; One Desperate Grief Cures With Another's Languish.

For Where Thou Art, There Is The World Itself, With Every Several Pleasure In The World, And Where Thou Art Not, Desolation.

She Is A Woman, Therefore To Be Won.

To You Your Father Should Be As A God; One That Composed Your Beauties, Yea, And One To Whom You Are But As A Form In Wax, By Him Imprinted, And Within His Power To Leave The Figure Or Disfigure It.

These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends And In Their Triump Die, Like Fire And Powder Which, As They Kiss, Consume