The breath of heav'n fresh-blowing, pure and sweet, / With day-spring born; here leave me to respire.

B.W. Wooster: If you ask me, art is responsible for most of the trouble in the world. R. Jeeves: An interesting theory, sir. Would you care to expatiate upon it? Wooster: As a matter of fact, no, Jeeves. The thought just occurred to me, as thoughts do. Jeeves: Very good, sir.

[T]he Duchess, and the dandies, and the member's wife and all the rest of their tribulations, were happily hidden from the view by the towering bouquets of the gold plateau vases at the head of the room. … A contra-dance after supper was felt to be a national duty; but behind those fatal vases a plot had already been concocted by the recondites for rewarding their previous self-denial, not by a quadrille, but a galoppe.

at night he [the bee] stores up his dayes gatherings, and what is worth his observation, goes into his cereous Tables, and what is not, pasles away at supper for Table-talke