Stop before incurring the dislike of the fair one’s little brothers or sisters. The malapert maliciousness of l’enfant terrible may occasion mortifications without number.
Stop before losing your temper with a rival in your charmer’s presence. If you must come to blows, let it be in a retired spot, but it were far better to sit him out, beat him on bouquets, gum drops and theatre-tickets, or otherwise defeat him in the rosy lists.
Stop at the one thousandth kiss, after receiving the coveted “Yes” from the adored one’s lips. Byron, it is true, in one of his callow effusions, counsels a million, but, as a conscientious Mentor, we prefer to draw the line somewhere even in such an emotional proceeding.
Stop, discontinue the siege altogether, in case of a downright rejection, howsoever reluctant, howsoever tearful. Don’t put up with the sisterly substitute, either; but just float out grandly on the ebb-tide of broken hopes, until brighter eyes a welcome shine to solace and to cheer.
Stop before imagining, if accepted, that your ordeal is now nearly at an end. Why, gentle sir, it hath just begun. You are now owned.
Stop short at the idea that even your former devotion is still in order. If it was a bouquet or two per week before, it is now a cart-load per day; your male familiars must sigh for you in vain—your off-nights are things of the past; you are on exhibition, not only to your fiancée’s family, but to the world at large; you are an engaged man!
Stop on the verge of suicidal despair as a result of your first lovers’ quarrel. This is but the pepper-sauce of passion, the curry of courtship, the horse-radish of happiness, without which that crowning reflection, the kiss-gilt, teardrop-rainbowed making-up were banished forever from Love’s golden feast!
Stop, in a general way, before making love for the fun of the thing. There is no meaner, more reptilian creature in society than the professional male flirt.
Stop before yielding an iota to the allurements of a notorious coquette. Heartlessness is her dower, emotional misery her delight, falseness her stock in trade, and the ashen Dead Sea fruit the only reward in her power, even if she love at last.
Stop before permitting your admiration of an actress, or ballet dancer, to glide into a master passion. Disenchantment, if desired, is mostly within easy reach, and you can console yourself with the reflection that there is far more beauty off the stage than on it.