Nature meant me a wife, a silly harmless household Dove, fond without art; and kind without deceit.
They first condemn that first advised the ill.
Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings / I bore this wren till I was tired with soaring, / And now he mounts above me.
But 'tis the talent of our English nation, Still to be plotting some new reformation.
Ill fortune seldom comes alone.
Ill writers are usually the sharpest censors.
Nature meant for me a wife, a silly harmless household Dove, fond without art; and kind without deceit.
The good we have enjoyed from Heaven's free will, and shall we murmur to endure the ill?
An horrid stillness first invades the ear, / And in that stillness we the tempest fear.