She hath dove’s eyes.
She batheth his brow with spikenard and myrrh, and anointeth him with alcohol. She arrangeth his pillows and comforteth his soul with words of cheer. She taketh his pulse!
He yearneth to be babied—and she babyeth him.
He pineth for sympathy—and she sympathizeth.
He seeketh comfort—and she maketh him comfortable.
And what chance hath a damsel at a pink tea beside a ministering angel such as one of these?
Go to, thou Simple One! What strength is there in a sick man that he shall flee before all the temptations of St. Anthony, in one?
Nay, though he be of stone and of adamant, though his heart be encased in barbed wire, yet shall he turn upon his pillow sighing:
“Alas Miriam is all right; but a wife was never like this!”
Yet how guileless is human nature! For, ye will keep your silver in a strong box and your jewels behind bars of iron; yet will ye trust your beloved in the hands of one of these.