I flutter all ways, and fly in none.
This is a puzzling world, and Old Harry's got a finger in it.
Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
What a different result one gets by changing the metaphor!
There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire; it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.
Destiny stands by sarcastic with our dramatis personae folded in her hand.