WOMAN

Translated from the French of Jean de Pontalais (A. D. 1350) by Sir T, Sinclair. Woman's the thief of each man's life, Woman's the dear death we all court, Woman is venom full of strife, Of sins each woman's the support.

Woman's the devil's constant aid, By woman we from Eden fell, Woman's of ill — report — a jade, Woman's of the damned the hell.

Woman is foe of the best friend.

Woman's the destined fatal sin, Woman's our foe, she'll ne'er mend, Woman's greedy, makes much din, More than Satan she deceives.

Woman's the tomb of us poor men.

Woman's the ill which grieves again.

For which we wring our hands in vain.

Woman finds fault, mourns and complains, Woman laughs loud, she sings and cries, Woman's ill when she likes, but feigns. Woman's well in a trice — tells lies.

She says she is of all the best, All but herself unfaithful are.

By which 'tis clear without a jest, 'Tis sad to drag their grievous car.

Wrong or right she doubts, then spies.

She shouts, finds fault and groans in pain. Her screams force us to hear her cries, And make us wroth and near insane, Who's such a fool as to agree To bear such insolence as this,

I know not, for 'twould folly be,

To have such patience with no bliss.

Her obstinacy, wrong or right,

She will maintain by her loud talk.

Reason departs, fancy or fright

Makes her the wrong way often walk,

Whoe'er replies to cease is pressed,

And when one's silent she's annoyed

That they don't answer — thus 'tis best

That marriage all men should avoid.

Of quicksilver her brain is made.

Which can't remain a moment still,

Her thought's a windmill it is said.

Which all winds turn and its sails fill.

What she most wishes to be done,

I know it by experience sad,

By using threats the end's not won.

And talking science drives her mad.

A woman is as cold as ice.

For sweetness she has rigour dire.

With no sense she'll with tricks entice,

'Gainst reason she's a cunning liar.

For less than naught a shrew is she,

She runs in debt for pleasures dear,

Your cash she spends in her high glee,

4li LARMES KT SOURIRES

So as to make some good friends here.

Woman will ne'er a good time spend Unless her mate's a fool or sage, If he's a fool he'll be content, Believing all is well, I'll gage.

If wise, when he her usage knows, For fear of risk he'll let things pass. To save his name he bears his woes, And crunches his bit like an ass.