But fruitless, hopeless, disappointed, rack’d 365
With jealousy, fatigued with hope and fear,
Too serious, or too languishingly fond,
Unnerves the body and unmans the soul.
And some have died for Love; and some run mad;
And some with desperate hand themselves have slain. 370
Some to extinguish, others to prevent,
A mad devotion to one dangerous Fair,
Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipate
The cares of Love amongst a hundred Brides.