O come, all ye hendecasyllables, as many as you are, from every part, all of you,
as many soever as you be! A filthy whore thinks that I am a joke, and says she
won't return to me your writing tablets, if you can stand it. Let's pursue her,
and claim them back. "Who is she?" you ask. That one, whom you see strutting
disgracefully, grinning with annoyance like a mime with a face like a Gallic
puppy. Surround her, and claim them back. "Filthy whore, give back the writing
tablets; give back, filthy whore, the writing tablets." You don't give two
cents? You slime, you whorehouse, or if you could be anything even more
loathsome! But you mustn't think that this is enough. For if nothing else we can
extort a blush on your brazened bitch's face. We'll yell again in heightened
voice, "Filthy whore, give back the writing tablets; give back, filthy whore,
the writing tablets." But we do no good, she isn't moved. We must change our
approach and our tune, if you can make further progress—"Chaste and
honest, give back our writing tablets."
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