It Is A Good Divine That Follows

My Only Love Sprung From My Only Hate.

Away, You Trifler! Love! I Love Thee Not, I Care Not For Thee, Kate: This Is No World To Play With Mammets And To Tilt With Lips: We Must Have Bloody Noses And Cracked Crowns.

He Capers, He Dances, He Has Eyes Of Youth, He Writes Verses, He Speaks Holiday, He Smells April And May.

Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner Lost And Won, Than Women's Are.

Women Being The Weaker Vessels, Are Ever Thrust To The Walls.