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I do believe you think what now you speak;But what we do determine oft we break.Purpose is but the slave to memory,Of violent birth, but poor validity;Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree;But fall, unshaken, when they mellow be.Most necessary 'tis that we forgetTo pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt:What to ourselves in passion we propose,The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.The violence of either grief or joyTheir own enactures with themselves destroy:Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament;Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strangeThat even our loves should with our fortunes change;For 'tis a question left us yet to prove,Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.The great man down, you mark his favourite flies;The poor advanced makes friends of enemies.And hitherto doth love on fortune tend;For who not needs shall never lack a friend,And who in want a hollow friend doth try,Directly seasons him his enemy.But, orderly to end where I begun,Our wills and fates do so contrary runThat our devices still are overthrown;Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own:So think thou wilt no second husband wed;But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.