[…] I should deem you a man sore sick, it may be, yet not so sick but that an instructed and watchful physician might well hope to cure you.

The lion roared terribly.

Between the roar of the thunder and the blatter of the rain there were intervals of an astounding still, of an ominous suspense […]

Crown me, therefore,—and minstrelling near to thy fanes, Bacchus, thickly-adorned with rosy chaplets will I dance with a full-bosomed maid.