Of all the plagues with which the world is curst, Of every ill, a woman is the worst.
Mankind, from Adam, have been women's fools;
Women, from Eve, have been the devil's tools:
Heaven might have spar'd one torment when we fell;
Not left us women, or not threatened hell.
Of all the kind of pains, the greatest pain is to love and to love in vain.
Happy the man, of mortals happiest he, Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free; Whom neither hopes deceive, nor fears torment, But lives at peace, within himself content; In thought, or act, accountable to none But to himself, and to the gods alone.
Beauty should be kind, as well as charm.
The virtuous nothing fear but life with shame,
And death's a pleasant road that leads to fame.
The radiant sun sends from above ten thousand blessings down, nor is he set so high for show alone.
Shall Nature, erring from her first command, self-preservation, fall by her own hand?
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.
Marriage the happiest bond of love might be, If hands were only joined when hearts agree.
There is no heaven like mutual love.
O Love! thou bane of the most generous souls! Thou doubtful pleasure, and thou certain pain.
Whoe'er thou art, thy Lord and master see,
Thou wast my Slave, thou art, or thou shalt be.
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