Sentimentality puts up infant hands for absolution
     Service of watering the dry and drying the damp (Whiskey)
     Sham spiritualism
     She had sunk her intelligence in her sensations
     She marries, and it’s the end of her sparkling
     She herself did not like to be seen eating in public
     She had a fatal attraction for antiques
     Sleepless night
     Slightest taste for comic analysis that does not tumble to farce
     Smart remarks have their measured distances
     Smoky receptacle cherishing millions
     Something of the hare in us when the hounds are full cry
     Strain to see in the utter dark, and nothing can come of that
     Swell and illuminate citizen prose to a princely poetic
     Sympathy is for proving, not prating
     Tendency to polysyllabic phraseology
     Terrible decree, that all must act who would prevail
     That is life—­when we dare death to live! 
     That’s the natural shamrock, after the artificial
     The man had to be endured, like other doses in politics
     The burlesque Irishman can’t be caricatured
     The greed of gain is our volcano
     The debts we owe ourselves are the hardest to pay
     The well of true wit is truth itself
     The blindness of Fortune is her one merit
     They have no sensitiveness, we have too much
     They create by stoppage a volcano
     This love they rattle about and rave about
     Tooth that received a stone when it expected candy
     Top and bottom sin is cowardice
     Touch him with my hand, before he passed from our sight
     Trial of her beauty of a woman in a temper
     Vagrant compassionateness of sentimentalists
     Vowed never more to repeat that offence to his patience
     Was not one of the order whose Muse is the Public Taste
     We live alone, and do not much feel it till we are visited
     We never see peace but in the features of the dead
     We must fawn in society
     We don’t know we are in halves
     We’re a peaceful people, but ’ware who touches us
     Weather and women have some resemblance they say
     Weighty little word—­woman’s native watchdog and guardian (No!)
     What might have been
     What the world says, is what the wind says
     What a woman thinks of women, is the test of her nature
     When we despair or discolour things, it is our senses in revolt
     Where she appears, the first person falls to second rank
     Who can really think, and not think hopefully? 
     Who venerate when they love
     Wife and no wife, a prisoner in liberty
     With that I sail into the dark
     Without those consolatory efforts, useless between men
     Women are taken to be the second thoughts of the Creator
     Women with brains, moreover, are all heartless
     World is ruthless, dear friends, because the world is hypocrite