In good poetry every word and phrase, as Professor McKail says, reverberates like the sound of a lyre, and leaves after it numberless undulatings. The verse exhales sweet sound, and light-like thought, as perfumes do; but we cannot explain just why.
The band were already on stage, warming up for the gig.
Who did beſeech your loues, for our ſucceſſion, / Cannot ſo lightly ouer-iumpe his death / As leaue his woes revengeleſſe: […]
The loading on the generators peaks during the early evening.
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