How Hard It Is For Women To

Where Art Thou, Muse, That Thou Forget'st So Long / To Speak Of That Which Gives Thee All Thy Might?

Iago: She That Was Ever Fair And Never Proud, Had Tongue At Will And Yet Was Never Loud, Never Lack'd Gold And Yet Went Never Gay, Fled From Her Wish And Yet Said 'now I May,' She That Being Anger'd, Her Revenge Being Nigh, Bade Her Wrong Stay And Her Displeasure Fly, She That In Wisdom Never Was So Frail To Change The Cod's Head For The Salmon's Tail; She That Could Think And Ne'er Disclose Her Mind, See Suitors Following And Not Look Behind, She Was A Wight, If Ever Such Wight Were,-- Desdemona: To Do What? Iago: To Suckle Fools And Chronicle Small Beer.

Thou Art A Castilian King Urinal!

This Rough Magic I Here Abjure And When I Have Required Some Heavenly Music, Which Even Now I Do, To Work Mine End Upon Their Senses That This Airy Charm Is For, I'll Break My Staff, Bury It Certain Fathoms In The Earth, And Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound, I'll Drown My Book.

A Good Wit Will Make Use Of Anything.