A dumb tongue can be a heavy liar
     Accounting his tight blue tail coat and brass buttons a victory
     Advised not to push at a shut gate
     Always the shout for more produced it ("News”)
     Amused after their tiresome work of slaughter
     And her voice, against herself, was for England
     Anecdotist to slaughter families for the amusement
     As faith comes—­no saying how; one swears by them
     As for comparisons, they are flowers thrown into the fire
     As if the age were the injury! 
     Be the woman and have the last word! 
     Bent double to gather things we have tossed away
     Brains will beat Grim Death if we have enough of them
     But a great success is full of temptations
     Call of the great world’s appetite for more (Invented news)
     Charity that supplied the place of justice was not thanked
     Cock-sure has crowed low by sunset
     Contempt of military weapons and ridicule of the art of war
     Could affect me then, without being flung at me
     Country enclosed us to make us feel snug in our own importance
     Courage to grapple with his pride and open his heart was wanting
     Deeds only are the title
     Detested titles, invented by the English
     Did not know the nature of an oath, and was dismissed
     Dogs’ eyes have such a sick look of love
     Drank to show his disdain of its powers
     Drink is their death’s river, rolling them on helpless
     Earl of Cressett fell from his coach-box in a fit
     Enemy’s laugh is a bugle blown in the night
     Everlastingly in this life the better pays for the worse
     Fatal habit of superiority stopped his tongue
     Father used to say, four hours for a man, six for a woman
     Father and she were aware of one another without conversing
     Festive board provided for them by the valour of their fathers
     Flung him, pitied him, and passed on
     Foe can spoil my face; he beats me if he spoils my temper
     Fond, as they say, of his glass and his girl
     Found that he ‘cursed better upon water’
     Fun, at any cost, is the one object worth a shot
     Good-bye to sorrow for a while—­Keep your tears for the living
     Had got the trick of lying, through fear of telling the truth
     Hard enough for a man to be married to a fool
     He did not vastly respect beautiful women
     He was a figure on a horse, and naught when off it
     He had wealth for a likeness of strength
     He wants the whip; ought to have had it regularly
     He was the prisoner of his word
     Heartily she thanked the girl for the excuse to cry
     Hearts that make one soul do not separately count their gifts
     Her intimacy with a man old enough to be her grandfather
     Himself in the worn old surplice of the converted rake
     I hate sleep:  I hate anything that robs me of my will