These Words Are Razors To My Wounded

A Woman Is A Dish For The Gods, If The Devil Dress Her Not.

By My Soul I Swear, There Is No Power In The Tongue Of Man To Alter Me.

You Know Who You Are, But Know Not Who You Could Be.

I May Neither Choose Who I Would, Nor Refuse Who I Dislike; So Is The Will Of A Living Daughter Curbed By The Will Of A Dead Father.

He Hath Not Eat Paper, As It Were; He Hath Not Drunk Ink; His Intellect Is Not Replenished; He Is Only An Animal, Only Sensible In The Duller Parts. (shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, Iv)