Women

The souls of women are so small,
That some believe they've none at all;
Or if they have, like cripples, still
They've but one faculty, the will;
The other two are quite laid by
To make up one great tyranny;
And though their passions have most pow'r,
They are, like Turks, but slaves the more
To th' abs'lute will, that with a breath
Has sovereign pow'r of life and death,
And, as its little int'rests move,
Can turn 'em all to hate or love;
For nothing, in a moment, turn
To frantic love, disdain, and scorn;
And make that love degenerate
T' as great extremity of hate;
And hate again, and scorn, and piques,
To flames, and raptures, and love-tricks.