Down the winding cavern we groped our tedious way, till a void boundless as the nether sky appeared beneath us, and we held by the roots of trees and hung over this immensity; but I said: if you please we will commit ourselves to this void and see whether providence is here also.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
None but blockheads copy each other.
Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.
Sooner strangle an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Then the Parson might preach, & drink, & sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring; And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.