Shakespeare
Call it madness, call it fate—but lo, mine own visage doth yearn for the tender embrace of fair undergarments! Be it silk, be it lace, be it cotton most humble—I am no fickle knave, but a most devoted soul. Judge me not, ye wagging tongues, for in this fleeting life, a man must chase his dreams… and lo, sometimes his dreams be lightly perfumed and freshly laundered