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She speaks much of her father; says she hearsThere's tricks i' the world; and hems, and beats her heart;Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,Yet the unshaped use of it doth moveThe hearers to collection; they aim at it,And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;Which, as her winks, and nods, and gesturesyield them,Indeed would make one think there might be thought,Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.