"As to the pretty girls who went past, from the day on which I had first known that their cheeks could be kissed, I had become curious about their souls. And the Universe had appeared to me more interesting."

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Shall I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman's fair?Or make pale my cheeks with care,'Cause another's rosy are?Be she fairer than the day,Or the flowery meads in May,If she be not so to me,What care I how fair she be?

— George Wither