“ Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day, Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay? Ends love in this, that my man Can be as happy as I can, if he can Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play? That loving wretch that swears, 'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds, Which he in her angelic finds, Would swear as justly, that he hears, In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres. Hope not for mind in women; at their best, Sweetness and wit they are, but mummy, possess'd. ”
