She’s the kitchen wench, and all grease; and I know not what use to put her but to make a lamp of her and run her from her own light. I warrant, her rags and the tallow in them will burn a Poland winter. If she lives till doomsday, she’ll burn a week longer than the whole world.

[p/s Happy Mustache Wednesday! You can shave it off, honey, but we know it's there, and so does your crimson elephant-god.]