At the moment this is the opening line to the next medieval fiction book I write, to be set in Brittany and Normandy in the 11th century.
Man is born with grand delusion of his irresistibility. And woulds't he find a woman who rebukes his importune, he sees this as her
defect rather than cruel Nature's good proclivity.
As hose grows longer and in seasons do their beards bud manly, men are disabused;
wretched will the disabusement be upon their ears. They duly thrashed not in
their body but their countenance. But marry now: there are degrees of lifted
veil.
And if a man would still seek out a woman woulds't he dream
his match or better, then there are still veils and veils before his eyes which
wretched fate hath failed to lift.
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