Every woman is the architect of her own fortune.
Pity, unlike hate, can be boxed and put away.
But how right is it to kill a man for something that is in his soul?
Love is best a phantom than reality, better in the chase than caught.
But words are water in Amsterdam, they flood your ears and set the rot, and the church's east corner is crowded.
The bars on our cage are of our own making.