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

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.

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

There is no heaven like mutual love.

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

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