Is there anything more terrible than perpetual motion, than doing and doing and doing, without a reason, without a consciousness, without a change, without an end?
She (Maria) lived in an enormous house in the wilds of Northamptonshire, which was about four times longer than Buckingham Palace, but was falling down.
Yes, that is the equality of man. Slaughter anybody who is better than you are, and then we shall be equal soon enough. All equally dead.
Ther days may come,/Ther days may go,/But still the light of Mem'ry weaves/Those gentle dreams/Of long ago
God is love, the parson whined. Yes, and is he also blind?
God is love, the bishops tell. Yes, I know, But love is hell.
Helen whose face was fatal must have wept Many salt tears to keep her eyes so bright Many long nights alone: and every night Men died, she cried, and happy Paris kept Sweet Helen.
And shall the Schoolmen die? And shall the Schoolmen die? Five hundred men of Lilliput Will know the reason why.
He (the Professor) was a failure but did his best to hid it. One of his failings was that he could barely write, except in a twelfth century hand, in Latin, with abbreviations.
When she (Maria) had come abreast of the little island of Mistress Masham's Repose, she began to feel piratical. Swouns and Slids, she said to herself, but you could slap her vitals if she did not careen there, and perhaps dig up some buried treasure while about it.
The most difficult thing in the world is to know how to do a thing and to watch someone else doing it wrong, without commenting.