A Rodomontade on His Cruel Mistress

Trust not that thing called woman: she is worse
Than all ingredients crammed into a curse.
Were she but ugly, peevish, proud, a whore,
Poxed, painted, perjured, so she were no more,
I could forgive her, and connive at this,
Alleging still she but a woman is.
But she is worse: in time she will forestall
The Devil, and be the damning of us all
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