Lathaniel, thou knowest how I crave thy touch. Many a night—and morn, and afternoon!—have I lain enfolded in thine arms, as thou tendered thy lips upon my ivory throat and plundered my crevices with thy capable, veiny fingers. But there is a matter we must discuss.
Lathaniel. You have to stop ripping my bodices.
Yes, thou didst detect a switch to the cold, formal “you”! For I am wroth, Lathaniel! Thou hast destroyed ALL OF MY BODICES with thy heedless ham-hands.
Am I flattered by thy haste? Forsooth. I am not made of stone. But, good lord, man. I must wear something. Have some self-restraint.
Surely, thou canst sate thy lusts upon mine person without turning every garment I own into confetti? I look upon my shredded silks and weep, Lathaniel! My bosom heaves with anguish. And what shall support it? Not my bodices!