Ay, Much Is The Force Of Heaven-bred

Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety.

Shall We Upon The Footing Of Our Land Send Fair-play Orders, And Make Compromise, Insinuation, Parley, And Base Truce, To Arms Invasive?

A Plague On Both Your Houses.

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death! O Limed Soul That, Struggling To Be Free, Art More Engaged! Help, Angels! Make Assay! Bow, Stubborn Knees! And, Heart With Strings Of Steel, Be Soft As Sinews Of The New-born Babe!

But Till All Graces Be In One Woman, One Woman Shall Not Come In My Grace. Rich She Shall Be, That's Certain; Wise, Or I'll None; Virtuous, Or I'll Never Cheapen Her; Fair, Or I'll Never Look On Her; Mild, Or Come Not Near Me; Noble, Or Not I For An Angel; Of Good Discourse, And Excellent Musician And Her Hair Shall Be Of What Colour It Shall Please God.