This is the age of invention, most certainly—the age, one may say—the age par excellence.

/ Like dew on the gowan lying / Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; / And like winds in summer sighing, / Her voice is low and sweet— / Her voice is low and sweet, / And she's a' the world to me, / And for bonnie Annie Laurie / I'd lay me doon and dee.

Nearly all bitter drinks are good.... Here at least I think England cannot match Ireland, for our stouts are, as a rule, too sweet and clammy. But there used to be in the country districts a sort of light porter which was one of the most refreshing liquids conceivable for hot weather.

Not by the force of carnal reason, / But indefatigable teasing.