Trust not that thing called woman: she is worse Than all ingredients crammed into a curse. Were she but ugly, peevish, proud, a whore, Poxed, painted, perjured, so she were no more, I could forgive her, and connive at this, Alleging still she but a woman is. But she is worse: in time she will forestall The Devil, and be the damning of us all. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UP AT A VILLA - DOWN IN THE CITY by ROBERT BROWNING THE LEAK IN THE DIKE; A STORY OF HOLLAND by PHOEBE CARY A STRIP OF BLUE by LUCY LARCOM STEADFASTNESS; THE LOVER BESEECHETH HIS MISTRESS by THOMAS WYATT OF MAIDENS' PRAISE: AN INVOCATION by SAINT ALDHELM |