Leave us to our free election.
To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.
Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak.
Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.
And be these juggling friends no more believ'd, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to our hope.
A little water clears us of this deed.