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

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

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

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

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

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

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