Dispute Not With Her: She Is Lunatic.

A Woman Moved Is Like A Fountain Troubled, Muddy, Ill-seeming, Thick, Bereft Of Beauty.

We, Ignorant Of Ourselves, Beg Often Our Own Harms, Which The Wise Powers Deny Us For Our Good; So Find We Profit By Losing Of Our Prayers.

He Took The Bride About The Neck And Kissed Her Lips With Such A Clamorous Smack That At The Parting All The Church Did Echo.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror

Though Men Can Cover Crimes With Bold, Stern Looks, Poor Women's Faces Are Their Own Faults' Books.