Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?
Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
Who is it can read a woman?
Women's weapons, water-drops.
You shall more command with years than with your weapons.
Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!