Thou art all these, and more than nature meant, When she created all, frowns, joys, content; Extream fire for an hour, and presently Colder than sleepy poyson, or the Sea, Upon whose face sits a continual frost: Your actions ever driven to the most, Then down again as low, that none can find The rise or falling of a Womans mind.

If he had pillag'd you near, or sunk your ship, Or thrown your men o'r-board, then he deserv'd The Laws extreamest rigour.