January 2010
9 posts
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, the pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of th’ unworthy takes, when he himself might his quietus make with a bare bodkin? (III.i.71-77)
Love, Shockey
Dear Self,
You disgust me.
Love, Shockey
