140 And yet be seen to bear a woman’s face?
[♦] Women are soft, mild, pitiful and flexible;
Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bid’st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:
Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will:
145 For raging wind blows up incessant showers,
And when the rage allays, the rain begins.
These tears are my sweet Rutland’s obsequies:
[♦] And every drop cries vengeance for his death,
’Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman.