A Hungry Wolf At All

Thus Grief Still Treads Upon The Heels Of Pleasure; Married In Haste, We May Repent At Leisure.

I Hope You Do Not Think Me Prone To Any Iteration Of Nuptials.

A Wit Should No More Be Sincere, Than A Woman Constant; One Argues A Decay Of Parts, As To Other Of Beauty.

They Come Together Like The Coroner's Inquest, To Sit Upon The Murdered Reputations Of The Week.

Women Are Like Tricks By Sleight Of Hand, Which, To Admire, We Should Not Understand