Fulvia

What our contempts doth often hurl from us
We wish it ours again. The present pleasure
By revolution lowering, does become
the opposite of itself. She's good, being gone,
The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.
I must from this enchanting queen break off.
Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,
My idleness doth hatch.


Is that correct? Have I properly memorized it?