Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight,
Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk
The prey wherein by nature they delight,
So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night:
His taste delicious, in digestion souring,
Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring.
Today, Hoy's 10th grade English Intensive Final played the role of Tarquin [Sextus Tarquinius], while I unfortunately found myself in the role of Lucrece, pleading worldlessly to the base and vile pages of of the examination, while clinging desperately to my virtuous grade point average virginity.
Analytical writers who value eloquence and detail pay with their lives, glimpsing their bleak fate as they completely a piece of hopeful literary genius, but with ten minutes to face two following trials of the pen. So are they cut down by the quickly sweeping hands of the clock. (Perhaps it is fair to mention there was no visible clock in the room, so judging the horrid closeness of my hovering defeat was impossible).
In conclusion, that exam fucking raped me.