Untilled ground, however rich, will bring forth thistles and thorns; so also the mind of man. - Teresa of Ávila
Some thirty inches from my noseThe frontier of my Person goes,And all the untilled air betweenIs private pagus or demesne.Stranger, unless with bedroom eyesI beckon you to fraternize,Beware of rudely crossing it:I have no gun, but I can spit. - W.H. Auden