I Will Make Thee Think Thy Swan

To Weep Is To Make Less The Depth Of Grief.

Nay, Had I Pow'r, I Should Pour The Sweet Milk Of Concord Into Hell, Uproar The Universal Peace, Confound All Unity On Earth.

I Am Not Prone To Weeping As Our Sex Commonly Are; The Want Of Which Vain Dew Perchance Shall Dry Your Pities; But I Have That Honorable Grief Lodged Here Which Burns Worse Than Tears Drown.

Can It Be Chat Modesty May More Betray Our Sense Than Woman's Lightness?

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run.