Women Speak Two Languages - One Of

We Bring Forth Weeds When Our Quick Minds Lie Still.

The Venom Clamours Of A Jealous Woman Poison More Deadly Than A Mad Dog's Tooth.

My Rage Is Gone, And I Am Struck With Sorrow. Take Him Up. Help, Three O' Th' Chiefest Soldiers; I'll Be One. Beat Thou The Drum, That It Speaks Mournfully, Trail Your Steel Spikes. Though In This City He Hath Widowed And Unchilded Many A One, Which To This Hour Bewail The Injury, Yet He Shall Have A Noble Memory. Assist.

You Are Not Wood, You Are Not Stones, But Men.

The Moon Of Rome, Chaste As The Icicle That's Curded By The Frost From Purest Snow.