Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.
But love's a malady without a cure.
Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
Beware the fury of a patient man.
I maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, may second the precepts.