She knows her man, and when you rant and swear, Can draw you to her with a single hair. - John Dryden

The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull,
With this prophetic blessing — Be thou dull; 60
Drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight
Fit for thy bulk, do anything but write.
Thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men,
A strong nativity — but for the pen;
Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink, 65
Still thou mayest live, avoiding pen and ink.
I see, I see, ’tis counsel given in vain,
For treason, botched in rhyme, will be thy bane;
Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck,
’Tis fatal to thy fame and to thy neck.

When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind!

Two if's scarce make one possibility.