A country of compromise goes to pieces at the first cannon-shot
     A lady’s company-smile
     A superior position was offered her by her being silent
     A whisper of cajolery in season is often the secret
     A contented Irishman scarcely seems my countryman
     Ah! we’re in the enemy’s country now
     And it’s one family where the dog is pulled by the collar
     Arch-devourer Time
     As secretive as they are sensitive
     As if she had never heard him previously enunciate the formula
     Be politic and give her elbow-room for her natural angles
     Beautiful women may believe themselves beloved
     Becoming air of appropriation that made it family history
     Constitutionally discontented
     Could peruse platitudes upon that theme with enthusiasm
     Decency’s a dirty petticoat in the Garden of Innocence
     England’s the foremost country of the globe
     Enjoys his luxuries and is ashamed of his laziness
     Fires in the grates went through the ceremony of warming nobody
     Foamy top is offered and gulped as equivalent to an idea
     Foist on you their idea of your idea at the moment
     Grimaces at a government long-nosed to no purpose
     Hard men have sometimes a warm affection for dogs
     He judged of others by himself
     He was not alive for his own pleasure
     Hear victorious lawlessness appealing solemnly to God the law
     Her aspect suggested the repose of a winter landscape
     Here, where he both wished and wished not to be
     Hug the hatred they packed up among their bundles
     I never saw out of a doll-shop, and never saw there
     I ’m the warming pan, as legitimately I should be
     I detest enthusiasm
     I baint done yet
     Indirect communication with heaven
     Ireland ’s the sore place of England
     Irishman there is a barrow trolling a load of grievances
     Irishmen will never be quite sincere
     Irony in him is only eulogy standing on its head
     Lack of precise words admonished him of the virtue of silence
     Loudness of the interrogation precluded thought of an answer
     Love the children of Erin, when not fretted by them
     Loves his poets, can almost understand what poetry means
     Married at forty, and I had to take her shaped as she was
     May lull themselves with their wakefulness
     Men must fight:  the law is only a quieter field for them
     Mika! you did it in cold blood? 
     Never forget that old Ireland is weeping
     No man can hear the words which prove him a prophet (quietly)
     Not every chapter can be sunshine
     Not likely to be far behind curates in besieging an heiress
     Not the great creatures we assume ourselves to be
     Not so much read a print as read the imprinting on themselves
     Not to bother your wits, but leave the puzzle to the priest