Early every morning an old woman goes to the market to curse a grocery clerk, who curses back.

After rejection - misery, then thoughts of revenge, and finally, oh well, another try elsewhere.

I must like my profession, since I can hardly distinguish myself from it.

Rhyme and meter force gaps in meaning so the muse can enter.

Only death rescues us from dying.

Good manners can render even virtue tolerable.

Self-conscious? Try a wig, a corset, a veil, a beard. Or cultivate shamelessness.