Woman, man’s greatest woe or bliss,
Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,
And with the magic of a kiss 55
Destroys whom she was made to save.
Oh! fruitful grief, the world’s disease!
And vainer man, to make it so,
Who gives his miseries increase
By cultivating his own woe. 60
There are no ills but what we make
By giving shapes and names to things;