“Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is pa…” — Lord Byron

Shakespeare's name, you may depend on it, stands absurdly too high and will go down.

The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.

Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.

One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other.