"Do not repine, my friends," said Mr. Pecksniff, tenderly. "Do not weep for me. It is chronic."
Charles DickensThe rich, sweet smell of the hayricks rose to his chamber window; the hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air around; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air: and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were a fountain of inspiration to them.
Charles Dickens