If you desire faith, then you have faith enough.

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

He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.

Eve is a twofold mystery.

The growing drama has outgrown such toys Of simulated stature, face, and speech: It also peradventure may outgrow The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume, And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, With all its grand orchestral silences To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.

Foolishness and criticism are so apt, do so naturally go together!

Thou large-brain'd woman and large-hearted man.