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     A plunge into the deep is of little moment
     A marriage without love is dishonour
     Active despair is a passion that must be superseded
     Am I ill?  I must be hungry! 
     And, ladies, if you will consent to be likened to a fruit
     And he passed along the road, adds the Philosopher
     Bear in mind that we are sentimentalists—­The eye is our servant
     Being heard at night, in the nineteenth century
     Beyond a plot of flowers, a gold-green meadow dipped to a ridge
     But love for a parent is not merely duty
     Depreciating it after the fashion of chartered hypocrites. 
     Emilia alone of the party was as a blot to her
     Fine Shades were still too dominant at Brookfield
     Had Shakespeare’s grandmother three Christian names? 
     He thinks that the country must be saved by its women as well
     His alien ideas were not unimpressed by the picture
     Hushing together, they agreed that it had been a false move
     I had to cross the park to give a lesson
     I cannot delay; but I request you, that are here privileged
     I had to make my father and mother live on potatoes
     I detest anything that has to do with gratitude
     I know that your father has been hearing tales told of me
     I am not ashamed
     It was as if she had been eyeing a golden door shut fast
     Littlenesses of which women are accused
     Love that shrieks at a mortal wound, and bleeds humanly
     Love discerns unerringly what is and what is not duty
     Love the poor devil
     Love, with his accustomed cunning
     Man who beats his wife my first question is, ‘Do he take his tea?’
     My mistress!  My glorious stolen fruit!  My dark angel of love
     My voice!  I have my voice!  Emilia had cried it out to herself
     My engagement to Mr. Pericles is that I am not to write
     No nose to the hero, no moral to the tale
     Nor can a protest against coarseness be sweepingly interpreted
     Oh! beastly bathos
     On a wild April morning
     Once my love? said he.  Not now?—­does it mean, not now? 
     One of those men whose characters are read off at a glance
     Our partner is our master
     Passion does not inspire dark appetite—­Dainty innocence does
     Passion, he says, is noble strength on fire
     Pleasure sat like an inextinguishable light on her face
     Poor mortals are not in the habit of climbing Olympus to ask
     Revived for them so much of themselves
     She was perhaps a little the taller of the two
     She had great awe of the word ‘business’
     Silence was their only protection to the Nice Feelings
     So it is when you play at Life!  When you will not go straight
     Solitude is pasturage for a suspicion
     The majority, however,