She Who Ne'er Answers Till A Husband

Such Labour'd Nothings, In So Strange A Style, Amaze Th' Unlearn'd And Make The Learned Smile.

Praise Is Like Ambergrease: A Little Whiff Of It, And By Snatches, Is Very Agreeable; But When A Man Holds A Whole Lump Of It To Your Nose, It Is A Stink, And Strikes You Down.

And Write About It, Goddess, And About It!

Our Business In The Field Of Fight, Is Not To Question, But To Prove Our Might.

Ye Flowers That Drop, Forsaken By The Spring, Ye Birds That, Left By Summer, Cease To Sing, Ye Trees That Fade, When Autumn Heats Remove, Say, Is Not Absence Death To Those Who Love?