A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*
You told a lie, an odious damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.
Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.