Cover that bosom that I must not see: souls are wounded by such things.
Doubts are more cruel than the worst of truths.
All which is not prose is verse; and all which is not verse is prose.
It's an odd job, making decent people laugh.
Perfect good sense shuns all extremity, content to couple wisdom with sobriety.
And with his arms crossed he looks pityingly down from his spiritual height on everything that anyone says.