He Prayeth Best, Who Loveth Best All

In Shakespeare One Sentence Begets The Next Naturally; The Meaning Is All Inwoven. He Goes On Kindling Like A Meteor Through The Dark Atmosphere.

Common Sense In An Uncommon Degree Is What The World Calls Wisdom.

Poor Little Foal Of An Oppressed Race! I Love The Languid Patience Of Thy Face.

Iago's Soliloquy - The Motive-hunting Of A Motiveless Malignity - How Awful It Is!

Chance Is But The Pseudonym Of God For Those Particular Cases, Which He Does Not Choose To Acknowledge Openly With His Own Sign Manual.