Such women are there; and they marry whom?

Why, when a man has gone and hanged himself

Because of what he calls a wicked wife,—

See, if the very turpitude bemoaned

Prove not mere excellence the fool ignores!

His monster is perfection,—Circe, sent

Straight from the sun, with wand the idiot blames

As not an honest distaff to spin wool!

O thou Lucrezia, is it long to wait

Yonder where all the gloom is in a glow