We overstate the ills of life, and take Imagination... down our earth to rake.

The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, held out in the smoke, like stars by day.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows when The world was worthy of such men.

And if God choose I shall but love thee better after death.

The English have a scornful insular way Of calling the French light.

I worked with patience which means almost power.

I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.