With constant travelling tears, till Beauty here
Shall search in vain for memory of herself.
My wealth I'll fling upon the air to birds
And beggars. Ay, my palace shall take wings!
My costly robes I'll cast into the street
That common women may adorn themselves.
I am no princess. I refuse the name
Of aught that makes me sister to that wretch.
Go seek some linen washer by a brook
And find a wealthier and a prouder wife.