And Yet To Every Bad There Is

Is A Woman A Thinking Unit At All, Or A Fraction Always Wanting Its Integer?

He Wished She Knew His Impressions; But He Would As Soon Have Thought Of Carrying An Odour In A Net As Of Attempting To Convey The Intangibilities Of His Feeling In The Coarse Meshes Of Language. So He Remained Silent.

Thoroughly Convinced Of The Impossibility Of His Own Suit, A High Resolve Constrained Him Not To Injure That Of Another. This Is A Lover's Most Stoical Virtue, As The Lack Of It Is A Lover's Most Venial Sin.

Beauty Lay Not In The Thing, But In What The Thing Symbolized.

Tis Because We Be On A Blighted Star, And Not A Sound One, Isn't It Tess?