Farce Is Nearer Tragedy In Its Essence

Trochee Trips From Long To Short; From Long To Long In Solemn Sort Slow Spondee Stalks.

The Many Men, So Beautiful! And They All Dead Did Lie: And A Thousand Thousand Slimy Things Lived On; And So Did I.

Truths ... Are Too Often Considered As So True, That They Lose All The Power Of Truth, And Lie Bed-ridden In The Dormitory Of The Soul, Side By Side With The Most Despised And Exploded Errors.

There Are Three Classes Into Which All The Women Past Seventy That Ever I Knew Were To Be Divided: 1. That Dear Old Soul; 2. That Old Woman; 3. That Old Witch.

To Doubt Has More Of Faith ... Than That Blank Negation Of All Such Thoughts And Feelings Which Is The Lot Of The Herd Of Church-and-meeting Trotters.