Women are like the arts, forced unto none, Open to all searchers, unprized, if unknown.

Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere,/ This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.

Let me arrest thy thoughts; wonder with me, why plowing, building, ruling and the rest, or most of those arts, whence our lives are blest, by cursed Cain's race invented be, and blest Seth vexed us with Astronomy.

Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?