How Hard It Is For Women To

I Am Not Yet Of Percy's Mind, The Hotspur Of The North; He That Kills Me Some Six Or Seven Dozen Of Scots As A Breakfast, Washes His Hands, And Says To His Wife, 'fie Upon This Quiet Life! I Want Work.

Alas, Sir, How Fell You Besides Your Five Wits?" Malvolio: "fool, There Was Never A Man So Notoriously Abused. I Am As Well In My Wits, Fool, As Thou Art." Feste: "but As Well? Then You Are Mad Indeed, If You Be No Better In You Wits Than A Fool.

I Am Such A Tender Ass, If My Hair Do But Tickle Me, I Must Scratch.

Night's Candles Have Burned Out, And Jocund Day Stands Tiptoe On The Misty Mountaintops." Hope Tinged With Melancholy - Like Life.

'tis Better To Bear The Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of.