Ill-luck, You Know, Seldom Comes Alone.

That's The Nature Of Women, Not To Love When We Love Them, And To Love When We Love Them Not.

Nay, What Is Worse, Perhaps Turn Poet, Which, They Say, Is An Infectious And Incurable Distemper.

Let Every Man Mind His Own Business.

There Are Two Kinds Of Beauty, One Being Of The Soul And The Other Of The Body, That Of The Soul Is Revealed Through Intelligence, Modesty, Right Conduct, Generosity And Good Breeding, All Of Which Qualities May Exist In An Ugly Man; And When One's Gaze Is Fixed Upon Beauty Of This Sort And Not Upon That Of The Body, Love Is Usually Born Suddenly And Violently.

The Virtuous Woman Must Be Treated Like A Relic - Adored, But Not Handled; She Should Be Guarded And Prized, Like A Fine Flower-garden, The Beauty And Fragrance Of Which The Owner Allows Others To Enjoy Only At A Distance, And Through Iron Walls.