Black fine line script tattoo reading though she be but little she is fierce across a person's lower stomach above black lace underwear.

Script quote across the lower stomach

Lettering · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a two-line script quotation in black ink on the lower abdomen, reading though she be but little she is fierce. The letters have thin, even linework with a handwritten, slightly slanted character, and the lettering is shown in sharp focus against warm skin tones. Black lace underwear sits below the tattoo, and the plain background keeps attention on the text.

Lettering Fine line Other Quote Handwriting Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The Marguerite left Bristol in October with forty ewes, two collies, a cook who sang badly, and a brown hen nobody had meant to bring. She came up the gangplank inside a sailor's coat and was not discovered until the Azores, by which time she had laid three eggs in the bosun's sou'wester.

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The grey tom, Sorrow, belonged to the second mate and ruled the forecastle the way a magistrate rules a parish. One night in the long swell past the Bay he went after the hen across the galley step. Mercy did not run. She flew straight at him with her wings out and her beak open, and the cat went down the hatch and stayed there three days, eating nothing but the cook's leftover herring.

The captain, Abel Quinn, heard about it from the cook and came down to look for himself. He crouched by the coop with his pipe unlit and studied the hen for a long while. "Little thing," he said. The cook, who had been made to learn Shakespeare at a Bristol dame school and never forgotten a line of it, said, "Though she be but little, she is fierce." Quinn laughed until he coughed, and said he would have the words painted on the bulkhead, and the cook said the hen would not care.

They raised Halifax in February with every ewe alive but one. Mercy walked down the planks first, head high, past the customs men and the dockers, and nobody ever saw her again. The cook swore that spring he heard a bird crowing from a fishmonger's barrow on Water Street, and that when he turned round, a stout old tom was sitting very still under the stall, looking as though he had learned something.