But you shall not escape my iambics.
I write of youth, of love, and have access by these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
So a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she dear to her own; when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls.
I hate and love. You ask, perhaps, how can that be? I know not, but I feel the agony.
Stop wishing to merit anyone's gratitude or thinking that anyone can become grateful.
There is nothing more foolish than a foolish laugh. Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est