The room was shockingly silent after Cecilia's performance. Thomas felt rejected. He knew she must have put up with a great deal earlier in the evening to have gone through with the spectacle at the end. He took greater comfort, for once, in the fact that in her eyes he was merely a friend and the interlude previous was not directed at him; but he couldn't help but feel terribly insulted and chastised and dejected all at once. Perhaps he had only imagined everything he had consoled himself with--that she would ever grow to return his affection.
When Thomas returned home that evening, the poem ran through his head on an endless loop. The words echoed their sentiment and he understood them perfectly. Tis a pity that such is mythical, For perfect men are merely fictional. She believed there wasn't a man alive that she could be happy with. It was as if she undervalued men in general. She knew nothing of their characters, how they think and feel.
With these thoughts and frustrations running through his head, he sat to write, yet again, to the lady.
My dear lady,
You have said tonight how you despise all that is in a man. Though I realize you have little experience, and that there was some justification in your speech, I cannot help but tell you how unforgiving a speech it was. You, my lady, though claiming to know much of the way of a man, know little to nothing of it. How often have I seen young ladies such as yourself succumb to the dictates of Society! For if you were to know the truth: there is no value in witty comebacks, or clever looks. Have you not seen the way people of Society place infinite importance on whether they look just right or curtsy properly? Have you not grown sick of people pretending to be your friend, people only interested in what you have to say until they've got their gossip and leave? Have you not tired of insincerity?
You have spoken your piece on the ways of Society tonight, now let me address mine. In response to your own sonnet, I shall give you another. It is from the poet Ben Jonson who speaks of the true nature of not only life, but love also, as it contrasts to society.
When Thomas returned home that evening, the poem ran through his head on an endless loop. The words echoed their sentiment and he understood them perfectly. Tis a pity that such is mythical, For perfect men are merely fictional. She believed there wasn't a man alive that she could be happy with. It was as if she undervalued men in general. She knew nothing of their characters, how they think and feel.
With these thoughts and frustrations running through his head, he sat to write, yet again, to the lady.
My dear lady,
You have said tonight how you despise all that is in a man. Though I realize you have little experience, and that there was some justification in your speech, I cannot help but tell you how unforgiving a speech it was. You, my lady, though claiming to know much of the way of a man, know little to nothing of it. How often have I seen young ladies such as yourself succumb to the dictates of Society! For if you were to know the truth: there is no value in witty comebacks, or clever looks. Have you not seen the way people of Society place infinite importance on whether they look just right or curtsy properly? Have you not grown sick of people pretending to be your friend, people only interested in what you have to say until they've got their gossip and leave? Have you not tired of insincerity?
You have spoken your piece on the ways of Society tonight, now let me address mine. In response to your own sonnet, I shall give you another. It is from the poet Ben Jonson who speaks of the true nature of not only life, but love also, as it contrasts to society.
Still to be Neat:
Still to be neat, still to be dressed
Still to be neat, still to be dressed
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed;
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th'adulteries of art.
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
[Poem: Still to be Neat, written by Ben Jonson: 1609 A.D.]
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