Lord help my poor soul.

To speak algebraically, Mr. M. is execrable, but Mr. G. is (x + 1)- ecrable.

He knew that Hop-Frog was not fond of wine; for it excited the poor cripple almost to madness; and madness is no comfortable feeling.

Tell me truly, I implore-- Is there-- is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted -- Nevermore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!

I have before suggested that a genuine blackguard is never without a pocket-handkerchief.