Gentlemen, love your wives. They are so much better than we that words will not suffice to explain why it is. They live more fully in a moment than we could ever hope to in a lifetime. They are creatures of such complexity that our simple natures cannot comprehend all that they are. All women – from the tall to the small, the bitter and sweet, to the youthful and the aged – all are precious. They are empyrean treasures, and to them we are beholden.
Their character knows no depth; their capacity to bear burdens that would break us is augustine1; their nurturing knows no bonds. They sacrifice that their families might not be left wanting. They cry when happy, smile when broken, laugh when nervous, and carry on long after they are past hope – and yet deceive none whilst doing so. Are we capable of such as well?
Do we not cry as suckling babes for their mothers when we have fallen ill? Would we not that we were suckled2? And do they not, though sickened themselves, suckle us to our content? Can we say that we possess love unconditional? Can we claim that one tender kiss from our lips heals all?
Nay, my good men, perish the thought. We do not, we can not, we are not, and we have not. Those supernal qualities are possessed alone by those who are our betters. They scold us, mould us, nag us, pry us, test us, wind us, and twist us. And who among you is not the better for it? I would that you check your bottoms3 for smoke4 were you to make such a claim.
All things, gentlemen, can be summed up by one singular point: we are lost without them. We cannot make it through this life without a good woman to encourage us; to offer us her sweet words of kindness; to strengthen and support us; to be an example to us; to lift us up when we have fallen; to make us a better us. Yet, they have ingrained within their very pith the capacity to carry on without us. Their strength lies in allowing themselves to be needed by us. And yet, are they not equally strong without us?
And so, good men, we serve them. We toil and labour; we callous our hands and burn our backs; we protect their grace with all the passion and fury like paladins of old. We must, for our honour lays in their bosoms5. Our fate is no better than the worms that rot our fallen corpses should we find ourselves rid of those who love us so dearly. All our labours are but too few should all of them be offered in tribute to her.
Yes my good men, women are so much above us that all the better would we be for admitting it more quickly. They do have one flaw, however. With all their complexities, all their gentleness, all their strengths, all their grace, all their beauty, they have this one great weakness. It is incumbent upon us as their servants – for servants we are and no more than servants ought we desire to be – to remind them of this. This single flaw is that they forget their own worth. Gentlemen, this cannot do. We must capitulate ourselves now that we should spend the rest of our lives, nay eternity, to prove that we are indeed worthy of our queens. They deserve nothing less.
