But oh, how slowly minutes roll When absent from her eyes, That feed my love, which is my soul: It languishes and dies. - John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester

Were I, who to my Cost already am One of those strange, prodigious Creatures Man, A Spirit free, to choose for my own Share, What sort of Flesh and Blood I pleas'd to wear, I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear, Or any thing, but that vain Animal, Who is so proud of being Rational.

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame, False to my passion, fatal to my fame, Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?

Before I got married I had six theories about bringing up children; now I have six children and no theories.