If I Were A Woman I Would

His Jest Will Savour But Of Shallow Wit, When Thousands Weep, More Than Did Laugh At It.

So Well Thy Words Become Thee As Thy Wounds.

Grace Me No Grace, Nor Uncle Me No Uncle; I Am No Traitor's Uncle, And That Word "grace" In An Ungracious Mouth Is But Profane.

Tis A Blushing Shame-faced Spirit That Mutinies In A Man's Bosom. It Fills A Man Full Of Obstacles. It Made Me Once Restore A Purse Of Gold That (by Chance) I Found. It Beggars Any Man That Keeps It.

But Men Are Men; The Best Sometimes Forget.