Before I was married, I had a hundred theories about raising children and no children. Now, I have three children and no theories.
Before I got married I had six theories about bringing up children now I have six children and no theories.
God bless our good and gracious King, Whose promise none relies on; Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one.
For Hell and the foul fiend that rulesGod's everlasting fiery jails(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools), With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door, Are senseless stories, idle tales, Dreams, whimseys, and no more.
A kind of losing loadum is their game, Where the worst writer has the greatest fame.
Before I got married I had six theories about raising children; now, I have six children and no theories.
How blest was the created stateOf man and woman, ere they fell, Compared to our unhappy fate: We need not fear another hell.
Now piercèd is her virgin zone; She feels the foe within it. She hears a broken amorous groan, The panting lover's fainting moan, Just in the happy minute.
Then, if to make your ruin more, You'll peevishly be coy, Die with the scandal of a whoreAnd never know the joy.