Every woman is at heart a rake.
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; My footstool earth, my canopy the skies.
Some people are commended for a giddy kind of good-humor, which is as much a virtue as drunkenness.
Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman is at heart a rake.
Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.