“Unhappy me," quoth she, "and will't not stand?Come, let me rub and chafe it with my hand.Perhaps the silly worm is laboured soreAnd wearièd that it can do no more.”

“O but," quoth she, "great griefe will not be tould, And can more easily be thought, then said." "Right so"; quoth he, "but he, that never would, Could never: will to might gives greatest aid." "But grief," quoth she, "does great grow displaid, If then it find not helpe, and breedes despaire." "Despaire breedes not," quoth he, "where faith is staid." "No faith so fast," quoth she, "but flesh does paire.""Flesh may empaire," quoth he, "but reason can repaire.”

“Do my ears deceive me, or can I actually hear the sounds of worms turning? You say a turning worm makes no sound? But how about a chorus of turning worms?”

“She dares me to pour myself out like a living waterfall. She dares me to enter the soul that is more than my own; she extinguishes fear in mere seconds. She lets light come through.”

“Don't make me happy. Please, don't fill me up and let me think that something good can come of any of this. Look at my bruises. Look at this graze. Do you see this graze inside me? Do you see it before your very eyes, eroding me? I don't want to hope for anything more.”

“Unhappy man! Do you share my maddness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!”