Prithee, Mistress Lohan, whither art thou tights?
Dost thou not agree that when a maiden taketh on doublet -- howsoever bare -- and breeches and disguiseth herself as a lad, in the manner of such good works by Sir William Shakespeare as As You Like It or Twelfth Night, the maiden needth likewise spare a thought to the hairlessness of her legs which will surely give away her disguise, revealing her to be a lady fair and not a brutish hairy man, and puteth on some hose? And indeed, Mistress Lohan, while thy lack of tights will surely destroy the historical accuracy of thine perplexing disguise of Shakespearean pantaloons, thou shouldst be aware as well that in this, the first month of the year, the month of the pagan lord Janus, thy lack of hose shall surely also lead thee downst the path to that most dreaded of afflictions, "hypothermia," and surely thereafter to thy most vile enemy, "exhaustion." Thou are indeed aware that when thou last fought "exhaustion," thou emergest from Ceders Sinai in a form both skeletal and creepy. I pray, Mistress Lohan, if thou insist on wrapping thyself in the robes of thine Shakespearean ancestors, prithee, give a precious thought to thine health! None of us art equipped, either in heart, brain, or humours, to deal with yet another of thy stints in the infirmary. Not again. No, not e'er again.
