Good men often have bad wives, as bad as Xanthippe was to Socrates, Elevora to St Lues and Isabella to our Edward II. And good wives are just as often matched with bad husbands, as Mariamne with Herod, Serena with Diocletian, Theodora with Theophilus and Thyra with Gurmunde.

But I will say nothing of dissolute and bad husbands, or of bachelors and their vices. Their good qualities are a fitter subject for a full volume; already too well known in every village, town and city, they need no proclamation. And, lest I spoil any matches or dishearten loving young women, for the present I will let them pass.

Since men and women are so irreligious, depraved by nature, so wandering in their affections, so brutish, so prone to disagreement, so heedless of marriage vows, what shall I say? If you are such a person, or happen upon such a wife, what harmony can there be, what hope of agreement? It is not wedlock but deadlock—as with the reed and fern in the emblem, averse and opposed by nature. The odds are twenty to one against your marrying to your satisfaction. Just as in a lottery forty blanks were commonly drawn for one prize, you will hardly choose a good partner from a multitude. Little relief, then, little comfort comes from it:

Nor will you ever pass a whole day happily.

If he or she is such a person, You would be much better off alone.

If she is barren, she is not—etc. If she has children and your circumstances are poor, however cautious and careful you may be, the expense will ruin you: “She will burden your household with plentiful offspring.” You will not be able to bring them up; and what greater misery can there be than to beget children to whom you can leave no inheritance but hunger and thirst?

“When hunger rules, the cries of those asking for bread ring out, piercing their father’s heart.” What is so grievous as turning them out into the wide world to fend for themselves? No plague equals poverty. And when you have ample means and take great care over their upbringing, they will not obey.

Just think of the old proverb, “Heroes’ children are troubles,” “Heroes’ sons are afflictions”: great men’s sons seldom do well. “Oh, if only I had remained unmarried, or had no offspring!” Augustus exclaims in Suetonius.

Jacob had his Reuben, Simeon and Levi; David an Amnon, an Absalom, an Adonijah. Wise men’s sons are commonly fools, so much so that Spartianus concludes that “scarcely any great man has left behind a thoroughly good and useful son.” They would have been much better off childless.

It is all too common among people of middling rank: your son is a drunkard, a gambler, a spendthrift; your daughter a fool, a whore; your servants lazy drones and thieves; your neighbours devils. They will make you weary of your life.

If your wife is quarrelsome, you would be better off buried alive whenever she cannot have her way. She will be so impatient, constantly raving and roaring like Juno in the tragedy: nothing but storms, everything in uproar. If she is weak-minded and foolish, you would be better off with a block of wood; she will disgrace you and reveal your secrets.

If she is wise, learned and accomplished, the opposite danger is just as great: “It is most dangerous to marry a learned woman,” says Nevisanus. She will be too arrogant and ill-tempered.

I prefer Venusina to you, mother Cornelia.

Take care: if she is slovenly, you will loathe her; if proud, she will beggar you. “She will spend your inheritance on trinkets; all Arabia will not suffice to perfume her hair,” says Lucian. If beautiful and wanton, she will make a cuckold of you; if ugly, she will paint her face.

If her face is ugly by nature, she will improve it artificially, “with borrowed, external deceptions”—and who can bear that? If she does not paint, she will look so ugly that you cannot love her, and perhaps that will make you unfaithful. Kromer, in book 12 of his History, relates that Casimir was unchaste because his wife Aleida, daughter of Henry, Landgrave of Hesse, was so ugly.

If she is poor, she brings poverty with her, says Nevisanus, misery and discontent. If you marry a maiden, you cannot be sure how she will turn out:

Perhaps she will prove ill suited to you.

If young, she is likely to be wanton and untaught; if vigorous, too lustful. And if she is not satisfied—you know where and when—there is “nothing but quarrelling”: everything is in uproar, and little peace is to be had. If she is an older maiden, there is a risk she will die in childbirth; if a rich widow, “you lead yourself into a snare,” you put a halter round your own neck: she will hand everything over beforehand to her other children, etc.

Who could endure a thundering mistress?

She will constantly reproach you with her first husband. If a young widow, she is often insatiable and immodest. If she is rich, well born, brings a large dowry or has noble connections, your wife’s relations will eat you out of house and home: “A rich woman brings ruin upon a household.” She will be so proud, so haughty, so domineering. For

Nothing is more unbearable than a rich woman.

There is nothing so unbearable. You will be like the male of a goshawk: she will ride roughshod over you, domineer as she pleases, wear the breeches in her oligarchic government, and beggar you besides.

“Rich wives demand servitude”—as Seneca strikes at them in book 2, declamation 6—“I accepted a dowry and lost my authority.” They will have sovereignty: “You summon a mistress instead of a wife.” They will have servants waiting on them; they will do as they please. In taking a dowry you lose your liberty: “The dowry comes in, freedom goes out”; you put your estate at risk.

These and many other troubles accompany great dowries, And unbearable expenses, etc.

With many such inconveniences. At best, she is a servant who gives orders; you would have done better to take a maiden who was a good housekeeper, with nothing but her shift. Since there is such risk, if you are wise, stay as you are: it is good to marry, much better to be free.