Frailty, Thy Name Is Woman!

Die For Adultery! No: The Wren Goes To't, And The Small Gilded Fly Does Lecher In My Sight

Go Wisely And Slowly. Those Who Rush Stumble And Fall.

I Am Not Bound To Please Thee With My Answer.

Yet This My Comfort: When Your Words Are Done, My Woes End Likewise With The Evening Sun.

You Common Cry Of Curs! Whose Breath I Hate As Reek O' The Rotten Fens, Whose Loves I Prize As The Dead Carcasses Of Unburied Men That Do Corrupt My Air, I Banish You; And Here Remain With Your Uncertainty!