O marriage! marriage! what a curse is thine, Where hands alone consent and hearts abhor.
Trust me--with women worth the being won, The softest lover ever best succeeds.
When Christ at Cana's feast by pow'r divine, Inspir'd cold water, with the warmth of wine, See! cry'd they while, in red'ning tide, it gush'd, The bashful stream hath seen its God and blush'd.
Art, however innocent, looks like deceiving.
Joys, which we do not know, we do not wish.
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