A young man married is a man that's marred.
What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!
Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.