If This Be Not Love, It Is

She Likes Herself, Yet Others Hates, For That Which In Herself She Prizes; And While She Laughs At Them, Forgets She Is The Thing That She Despises.

A Hungry Wolf At All The Herd Will Run, In Hopes, Through Many, To Make Sure Of One.

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

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

Blessings Ever Wait On Virtuous Deeds, And Though A Late, A Sure Reward Succeeds.