It Matters Not How Strait The Gate,

Shakespeare Often Writes So Ill That You Hesitate To Believe He Could Ever Write Supremely Well; Or, If This Way Of Putting It Seem Indecorous And Abominable, He Very Often Writes So Well That You Are Loth To Believe He Could Ever Have Written Thus Extremely Ill.

The Life Of Dumas Is Not Only A Monument Of Endeavour And Success, It Is A Sort Of Labyrinth As Well. It Abounds In Pseudonyms And Disguises, In Sudden And Unexpected Appearances And Retreats As Unexpected And Sudden, In Scandals And In Rumours, In Mysteries And Traps And Ambuscades Of Every Kind.

Into The Winter's Gray Delight, Into The Summer's Golden Dream, Holy And High And Impartial, Death, The Mother Of Life, Mingles All Men For Ever.

[t]hey Stretch You On A Table. Then They Bid You Close Your Eyelids, And They Mask You With A Napkin, And The Anæsthetic Reaches Hot And Subtle Through Your Being.

And Lo, The Hospital, Gray, Quiet, Old, Where Life And Death Like Friendly Chafferers Meet.