I, for one, regarded this master-at-arms with mixed feelings of detestation, pity, admiration, and something opposed to enmity.

The wine which from yon wounded palm on high / Fills yonder gourd, as slowly it distills, / Grows sour at once if Lorrinite pass by.

Their folded Sheets dismiss the useless Air

I heard a linnet courting His lady in the spring […]