We do not go to the theatre like our ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, so much as to confirm our experience of it.

Fly not yet; 't is just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night And maids who love the moon.

For thy sake, tobacco, I would do anything but die.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

Can we ring the bells backward? Can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world? There is a march of science; but who shall beat the drums for its retreat?

Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.

There are like to be short graces where the devil plays host.