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.

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

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

Of all the kind of pains, the greatest pain is to love and to love in vain.

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

O Love! thou bane of the most generous souls! Thou doubtful pleasure, and thou certain pain.