Faith, Sir, we are here to-day, and gone tomorrow.
Love ceases to be a pleasure, when it ceases to be a secret.
Love's a thin diet, nor will keep out cold.
All I ask, is the privilege for my masculine part the poet in me. . . . If I must not, because of my sex, have this freedom. . . I lay down my quill and you shall hear no more of me.
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