And this is Love! Oh! why should woman love;
Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope,
Happiness, are but things of which henceforth
She'll only know the name?

The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing.

But not on that account (for I'd be wrong)
Would I advise you, ladies, to shun love,
For like a vine untended, with no strong
Support to cling to, you would be.

A woman in love can't be reasonable — or she probably wouldn't be in love.

They suppose that Woman's Love is Sin; in consequence all the Loves & Graces with them are Sin.

That if weak women went astray,
Their stars were more in fault than they.

But who e'er turned from beauty's ray
For fear of future shade;
Or who e'er flung a rose away
Because that rose might fade.

Trust no friend without faults, and love a woman, but no angel.

And this is woman's fate:
All her affections are called into life
By winning flatteries, and then thrown back
Upon themselves to perish; and her heart,
Her trusting heart, filled with weak tenderness,
Is left to bleed or break!

Ah, Woman has no look so sweet
As that, when, half afraid to meet
The look she loves, blushes betray
All the suppressed glance would say.

Pure as the snow the summer sun
Never at noon hath look'd upon, —
Deep, as is the diamond wave,
Hidden in the desart cave, —
Changeless, as the greenest leaves
Of the wreath the cypress weaves, —
Hopeless, often, when most fond,
Without hope or fear beyond
Its own pale fidelity, —
And this woman's love can be!

The less we show our love to a woman,
Or please her less, and neglect our duty,
The more we trap and ruin her surely
In the flattering toils of philandery.

Ah, cruel 'tis to love,
And cruel not to love,
But cruelest of all
To love and love in vain.

Think not that aught the fury can surpass
Of woman, when she feels that she is scorned.