Part 45

A pretty wife? Beware the monks as you would guard your life Above all law is might Avoid attorneys, if you comfort crave But reason 's fruitless, with a soul on fire By others do The same as you would like they should by you Caresses lavish, and you'll find return Criticism never stops short nor ever wants for subjects Delays are dangerous, in love or war Ev'ry grave's the same Extremes in ev'ry thing will soonest tire Favours, when conferred with sullen air, But little gratify Few ponder long when they can dupe with ease Fools or brutes, With whose ideas reason never suits He who loves would fain be loved as well He, who laughs, is always well received Her doll, for thought, was just as well designed Historick writ How could he give what he had never got? In childhood FEAR 's the lesson first we know! In country villages each step is seen In the midst of society, he was absent from it Monks are knaves in Virtue's mask No folly greater than to heighten pain No grief so great, but what may be subdued No pleasure's free from care you may rely Not overburdened with a store of wit Of't what we would not, we're obliged to do Opportunity you can't discern--prithee go and learn Perhaps one half our bliss to chance we owe Possession had his passion quite destroyed Regarded almost as an imbecile by the crowd Removed from sight, but few for lovers grieve Sight of meat brings appetite about Some ostentation ever is with grief The eyes:-- Soul-speaking language, nothing can disguise The god of love and wisdom ne'er agree The less of such misfortunes said is best The more of this I think, the less I know The plaint is always greater than the woe The promises of kings are airy dreams The wish to please is ever found the same Those who weep most the soonest gain relief Though expectations oft away have flown Tis all the same:--'twill never make me grieve Tis past our pow'r to live on love or air To avoid the tempting bit, 'Tis better far at table not to sit Too much you may profess Twere wrong with hope our fond desires to feed Was always wishing distant scenes to know We scarcely good can find without alloy When husbands some assistance seemed to lack When mourning 's nothing more than change of dress When passion prompts, few obstacles can clog While good, if spoken, scarcely is believed Who knows too much, oft shows a want of sense Who only make friends in order to gain voices in their favour Who would wish to reduce Boccaccio to the same modesty as Virgil Who, born for hanging, ever yet was drowned? Wife beautiful, witty and chaste woman, who drove him to despair You little dream for whom you guard the store