And bid me tell each trifle of myself;
Then, satisfied at last, that all were well,
At last, unwilling, turn to meaner cares.
Count. This is the nature, still of womankind;
If fondness be their mood, we must cast off
All grave-complexion'd thought, and turn our souls
Quite from their tenour, to wild levity;
Vary with all their humours, take their hues,
As unsubstantial Iris from the sun: