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

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.

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.

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

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