Today the French, / All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, / Shone down the English;

Here and throughout, variation infuses the music, Chopin’s innovative, elastic figuration masking the underlying similarity of bars 23 and 25.

And because yee are sonnes, God hath sent foorth the spirit of his Sonne into your hearts, crying Abba, Father.

A bunch of workmen were lying on the grass of the park beside Macquarie Street, in the dinner hour. It was winter, the end of May, but the sun was warm, and they lay there in shirt-sleeves, talking.