Sometimes when you sit in a restaurant, still stuffing yourself half an hour after closing time, you feel that the tired waiter at your side must surely be despising you.
To the garden,
Whose western side, circummured with brick,
Is with a vinyard back’d.
To that vinyard is a planchéd gate
That makes his opening by a little door
Which from the garden to the vinyard leads.
Constancy is made up of a series of small inconstancies, which never come to any thing; and the heart takes credit for its loyalty, because in the long-run it ends where it began.
When a question was asked, would put on a mysterious look. Shake his head. Smoke in silence. Observe, at length, he had doubts. Presided at the council, in state. Swayed a Turkish pipe instead of a scepter. Known to sit with eyes closed ...[…]
