I Saw That The Bride Within The

The Very Dogs Were All Asleep, And The Flies, Drunk With Moist Sugar In The Grocer's Shop, Forgot Their Wings And Briskness, And Baked To Death In Dusty Corners Of The Window.

... Arthur Gride, Whose Bleared Eyes Gloated Only Over The Outward Beauties, And Were Blind To The Spirit Which Reigned Within, Evinced - A Fantastic Kind Of Warmth Certainly, But Not Exactly That Kind Of Warmth Of Feeling Which The Contemplation Of Virtue Usually Inspires.

Vengeance And Retribution Require A Long Time; It Is The Rule.

Poetry's Unnat'ral; No Man Ever Talked Poetry 'cept A Beadle On Boxin' Day.

This Fine Young Man Had All The Inclination To Be A Profligate Of The First Water, And Only Lacked The One Good Trait In The Common Catalogue Of Debauched Vices - Open-handedness - To Be A Notable Vagabond. But There His Griping And Penurious Habits Stepped In; And As One Poison Will Sometimes Neutralise Another, When Wholesome Remedies Would Not Avail, So He Was Restrained By A Bad Passion From Quaffing His Full Measure Of Evil, When Virtue Might Have Sought To Hold Him Back In Vain.