Is it not rather what we expect in men, that they should have numerous strands of experience lying side by side and never compare them with each other?

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.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.

In all private quarrels the duller nature is triumphant by reason of dullness.

An election is coming. Universal peace is declared, and the foxes have a sincere interest in prolonging the lives of the poultry.