While, caught up by your course, he turns upon himself.
Fifine at the Fair.
Any sort of woman may bestow
Her atom on the star, or clod she counts for such,—
Each little making less bigger by just that much.
Women grow you, while men depend on you at best.
Fifine at the Fair.
Woman, and will you cast
For a word, quite off at last
Me your own, your You,—