Their sneer withers
     There is no driver like stomach
     There’s not an act of a man’s life lies dead behind him
     They could have pardoned her a younger lover
     Those who have the careless chatter, the ready laugh
     Those who know little and dread much
     Thus are we stricken by the days of our youth
     Tighter than ever I was tight I’ll be to-night
     To most men women are knaves or ninnies
     Touch sin and you accommodate yourself to its vileness
     Truth is, they have taken a stain from the life they lead
     Very little parleying between determined men
     Wakening to the claims of others—­Youth’s infant conscience
     Warm, is hardly the word—­Winter’s warm on skates
     We make our taskmasters of those to whom we have done a wrong
     We shall go together; we shall not have to weep for one another
     With one idea, we see nothing—­nothing but itself
     Woman finds herself on board a rudderless vessel
     Women treat men as their tamed housemates
     Wooing her with dog’s eyes instead of words
     Writer society delights in, to show what it is composed of
     You played for gain, and that was a licenced thieving
     You saw nothing but handkerchiefs out all over the theatre
     You are to imagine that they know everything
     You want me to flick your indecision
     You want me to flick your indecision