The Grace Of God Is Courtesy.

The Tender Evenlode That Makes Her Meadows Hush To Hear The Sound Of Waters Mingling In The Brakes, And Binds My Heart To English Ground. A Lovely River, All Alone, She Lingers In The Hills And Holds A Hundred Little Towns Of Stone, Forgotten In The Western Wolds.

Matilda Told Such Dreadful Lies, It Made One Gasp And Stretch One's Eyes Her Aunt, Who, From Her Earliest Youth, Had Kept A Strict Regard For Truth, Attempted To Believe Matilda The Effort Very Nearly Killed Her.

When You Have Lost Your Inns, Drown Your Empty Selves, For You Will Have Lost The Last Of England.

Of All Fatiguing, Futile, Empty Trades, The Worst, I Suppose, Is Writing About Writing.

[heresy Is] The Dislocation Of A Complete And Self-supporting Scheme By The Introduction Of A Novel Denial Of Some Essential Part Therein.