Well, If Fortune Be A

That Strain Again! It Had A Dying Fall: O, It Came O'er My Ear Like The Sweet Sound That Breathes Upon A Bank Of Violets, Stealing And Giving Odour! Enough; No More: 'tis Not So Sweet As It Was Before.

Hanging And Wiving Goes By Destiny.

Let Me, If Not By Birth, Have Lands By Wit; All With Me's Meet That I Can Fashion Fit.

He's All My Exercise, My Mirth, My Matter.

Well, If Fortune Be A Woman, She's A Good Wench For This Gear.