A Woman's Heart Is Such A Complex

...but In Every Century, And Ever Since England Has Been What It Is, An Englishman Has Always Felt Somewhat Ashamed Of His Own Emotion And Of His Own Sympathy.

It Is Only When We Are Very Happy That We Can Bear To Gaze Merrily Upon The Vast And Limitless Expanse Of Water, Rolling On And On With Such Persistent, Irritating Monotony, To The Accompaniment Of Our Thoughts, Whether Grave Or Gay.

A Surging, Seething, Murmuring Crowd Of Beings That Are Human Only In Name, For To The Eye And Ear They Seem Naught But Savage Creatures, Animated By Vile Passions And By The Lust Of Vengeance And Of Hate. The Hour, Some Little Time Before Sunset, And The Place, The West Barricade, At The Very Spot Where, A Decade Later, A Proud Tyrant Raised An Undying Monument To The Nation's Glory And His Own Vanity.

To Love, For Us Men, Is To Clasp One Woman With Our Arms, Feeling That She Lives And Breathes Just As We Do, Suffers As We Do, Thinks With Us, Loves With Us, And, Above All, Sins With Us.

A Woman's Heart Is Such A Complex Problem - The Owner Thereof Is Often Most Incompetent To Find The Solution To This Puzzle.