How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.
I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.
But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.
The icy precepts of respect.
Know more than other. Work more than other. Expect less than other