Pedro Archanjo visited them all, one after another, and kept them happy as if he had nothing to do in life but lie around in bed and ball. A lord, a pasha, a vainglorious cock-of-the-walk, always ready to jump into bed or sit down at the table. He led a soft, sweet life, lolling at his ease. No womaon alive had ever made him suffer the agony, the martyrdom, the fear of never having her or of losing her; for the shameless, wheedling womenfolk had no pride and ran after him and hung on his neck, flattering and provocative; never in their wildest dreams would they have thought of leaving him or making jealous scenes or putting horns on his head. Such were the joys of pedro Archango: his mouth and his arms were never empty.

Things Fall Apart: the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world