Oh! How many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring.
Faint is the bliss, that never past thro' pain.
Prithee don't screw your wit beyond the compass of good manners.
You know, one had as good be out of the world, as out of the fashion.
So mourn'd the dame of Ephesus her love.
We shall find no fiend in hell can match the fury of a disappointed woman; scorned, slighted, dismissed without a parting pang.