| To be sure, ye say: "The delight in petty evils spareth one many a great evil deed." But here one should not wish to be sparing. Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irritateth and breaketh forth - it speaketh honourably. "Behold, I am disease," saith the evil deed: that is its honourableness. But like infection is the petty thought: it creepeth and hideth, and wanteth to be nowhere - until the whole body is decayed and withered by the petty infection. | ||
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 The Muse gets in touch with her softest softness. |
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Muse: |
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