Either sex alone is half itself.
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.
Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
Better not be at all than not be noble.
But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.