Women Being The Weaker Vessels, Are Ever

But Now Behold, In The Quick Forge And Working-house Of Thought, How London Doth Pour Out Her Citizens!

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!

Still Constant Is A Wondrous Excellence.

We Make Trifles Of Terrors, Ensconcing Ourselves Into Seeming Knowledge, When We Should Submit Ourselves To An Unknown Fear.

But I Am Constant As The Northern Star, Of Whose True Fixed And Resting Quality There Is No Fellow In The Firmament.