Of all the plagues with which the world is curst, Of every ill, a woman is the worst.

Who to a woman trusts his peace of mind, Trusts a frail bark, with a tempestuous wind.

Shall Nature, erring from her first command, self-preservation, fall by her own hand?

Patience is the virtue of an ass, who treads beneath his burden and complains not.

There is no heaven like mutual love.

Marriage the happiest bond of love might be, If hands were only joined when hearts agree.

The radiant sun sends from above ten thousand blessings down, nor is he set so high for show alone.