That fiery dragon, a beautiful womanwith brainsThat sort of progenitor is your"permanent aristocracy"That plain confession of a lack of wit;he offered combatThat is life—when we dare death tolive!That pit of one of their dead silencesThat's the natural shamrock, after theartificialThe exhaustion ensuing we namedtranquillityThe most dangerous word of all—jaThe impalpable which has prevailingweightThe world is wise in its wayThe danger of a little knowledge ofthings is disputableThe infant candidate delights in hishonestyThe rider's too heavy for the horse inEnglandThe Pilgrim's Scrip remarks that: Youngmen take joy in nothingThe tragedy of the mirror is one for awoman to writeThe worst of it is, that we rememberThe old confession, that we cannotcook (The English)The sentimentalists are represented bythem among the civilizedThe born preacher we feel instinctivelyto be our foeThe face of a stopped watchThe banquet to be fervently remembered,should smokeThe woman follows the man, and musicfits to verse,The circle which the ladies ofBrookfield were designingThe majority, however, had beensnatched out of this blissThe effects of the infinitely littleThe way is clear: we have only to takethe stepThe devil trusts nobodyThe divine afflatus of enthusiasmbuoyed her no longerThe weighty and the trivial contendedThe backstairs of history (Memoirs)The defensive is perilous policy in warThe family view is everlastingly theshopkeeper'sThe unhappy, who do not wish to live,and cannot dieThe homage we pay him flatters usThe worst of omens is delayThe people always wait for the winnerThe healthy only are fit to liveThe defensive is perilous policy in warThe past is our mortal mother, no deadthingThe wretch who fears death diesmultitudinouslyThe proper defence for a nation is itshistoryThe thought stood in her eyesThe love that survives has strangledcravingThe grey furniture of Time for hisnatural wearThe world without him would be heavymatterThe despot is alert at every issue, toevery chanceThe spending, never harvesting, worldThe shots hit us behind youThe terrible aggregate social womanThe next ten minutes will decide ourdestiniesThe woman side of himThe good life gone lives on in the mindThe beat of a heart with a dread like ashot in itThe girl could not know her own mind,for she suited him exactlyThe critic that sneersThe blindness of Fortune is her onemeritThe religion of this vast Englishmiddle-class—ComfortThe slavery of the love of a womanchainedThe idea of love upon the lips ofordinary men, provoked Dahlia's ironyThe brainless in Art and in StatecraftThe well of true wit is truth itselfThe debts we owe ourselves are thehardest to payThe greed of gain is our volcanoThe burlesque Irishman can't becaricaturedThe man had to be endured, like otherdoses in politicsThe greater wounds do not immediatelyconvince us of our fateThe system is cursed by nature, andthat means by heavenThe turn will come to us as to others—and goThe woman seeking for an anomaly wantsa masterThe language of party is eloquentThe philosopher (I would keep him backif I could)The gallant cornet adored delicacy anda gilded refinementThe sentimentalist goes on accumulatingimagesThe dismally-lighted city wore a lookof Judgement terrible to seeThe kindest of men can be cruelThe night went past as a yearThe social world he looked at did notshow him heroesThe overwise themselves hoodwinkThe king without his crown hath aforehead like the clownThe curse of sorrow is comparison!The race is for domestic peace, my boyThe divinely damnable naked truth won'twear ornamentsThe idol of the hour is the mob'swooden puppetThe embraced respected womanThe habit of the defensive paralyzeswillThe intricate, which she takes for theinfiniteThe mildness of assured dictatorshipThe alternative is, a garter and thebedpostThe ass eats at my table, and treats mewith contemptThe Countess dieted the vanityaccording to the nationalityThe letter had a smack of crabbed agehardly counterfeitThe commonest things are the worst doneThe thrust sinned in its shrewdnessThe power to give and take flattery toany amountTheir sneer withersTheir not caring to think at allTheir idol pitched before them on thefloorTheir hearts are eaten up by propertyTheir way was down a green lane andacross long meadow-pathsThen for us the struggle, for him thegriefThen, if you will not tell meThere is little to be learnt when alittle is knownThere is no history of events below thesurfaceThere is no first claimThere is no step backward in lifeThere is more in men and women than thestuff they utterThere is no driver like stomachThere were joy-bells for Robert andRhoda, but none for DahliaThere is for the mind but one grasp ofhappinessThere may be women who think as well asfeel; I don't know themThere are women who go through life notknowing loveThere's nothing like a metaphor for anevasionThere's not an act of a man's life liesdead behind himThere's ne'er a worse off but there's abetter offThey have no sensitiveness, we have toomuchThey may know how to make themselveshappy in their climateThey dare not. The more I dare, theless dare theyThey have not to speak to exhibit theirmindsThey had all noticed, seen, andobservedThey seem to me to be educated toconceal their educationThey miss their pleasure in pursuing itThey could have pardoned her a youngerloverThey take fever for strength, andcalmness for submissionThey are little ironical laughter—AccidentsThey have their thinking done for themThey laugh, but they laughextinguishinglyThey kissed coldly, pressed a hand,said good nightThey create by stoppage a volcanoThey want you to show them what they 'dlike the world to beThey, meantime, who had a contempt forsleepThey believe that the angels have beenbusy about themThey helped her to feel at home withherselfThey do not live; they are enginesThey're always having to retire andalways hissingThings are not equalThings were lumpish and gloomy that dayof the weekThirst for the haranguing of crowdsThis was a totally different case fromthe antecedent onesThis mania of young people forpleasure, eternal pleasureThis love they rattle about and raveaboutThis girl was pliable only to service,not to griefThis female talk of the eternitiesThose happy men who enjoy perceptionswithout opinionsThose who know little and dread muchThose days of intellectual coxcombryThose numerous women who always knowthemselves to be rightThose whose humour consists of areadiness to laughThose who have the careless chatter,the ready laughThose who are rescued and made happy bycircumstancesThought of differences with him causedfrightful apprehensionsThreatened powerful drugs for weakstomachsThreats of prayer, however, that harpupon their sincerityThus does Love avenge himself on theunsatisfactory PastThus are we stricken by the days of ouryouthTight grasps of the hand, in whichthere was warmth and shynessTighter than ever I was tight I'll beto-nightTime and strength run to waste inretarding the inevitableTime is due to us, and the minutes areour gold slipping awayTime, whose trick is to turn corners ofunanticipated sharpnessTimes when an example is needed bybrave menTis the fashion to have our tattle doneby machineryTis the first step that makes a pathTitles showered on the women who takefree breath of airTo be a really popular hero anywhere inBritain (must be a drinker)To hope, and not be impatient, isreally to believeTo males, all ideas are female untilthey are made factsTo be both generally blamed, andgenerally likedTo let people speak was a maxim of Mrs.Mel's, and a wise oneTo kill the deer and be sorry for thesuffering wretch is commonTo be passive in calamity is theprovince of no womanTo the rest of the world he was aprogressive comedyTo know how to take a licking, thatwins in the endTo have no sympathy with the playfulmind is not to have a mindTo time and a wife it is no disgracefor a man to bendTo know that you are in England,breathing the same air with meTo be her master, however, one must notbegin by writhing as her slaveTo do nothing, is the wisdom of thosewho have seen fools perishTo most men women are knaves or ninniesTo beg the vote and wink the bribeTongue flew, thought followedToo well used to defeat to believereadily in victoryToo prompt, too full of personal relishof his pointToo many time-servers rot the StateToo weak to resist, to submit to anoutrage quietlyToo often hangs the house on one loosestoneTook care to be late, so that all eyesbeheld herTooth that received a stone when itexpected candyTop and bottom sin is cowardiceTossed him from repulsion toincredulity, and so backTouch him with my hand, before hepassed from our sightTouch sin and you accommodate yourselfto its vilenessTouching a nerveToyed with little flowers of palestmemoryTradesman, and he never was known tohave sent in a billTrial of her beauty of a woman in atemperTrick for killing time without hurtinghimTried to be honest, and was as much soas his disease permittedTroublesome appendages of successTrue love excludes no natural dutyTrue enjoyment of the princelydispositionTrust no man Still, this man may bebetter than that manTruth is, they have taken a stain fromthe life they leadTwice a bad thing to turn sinners looseTwisted by a nature that would notallow of open eyesTwo wishes make a willTwo principal roads by which poorsinners come to a conscienceTwo people love, there is no such thingas owing between themUnaccustomed to have his will thwartedUnanimous verdicts from a jury oftemporary impressionsUncommon unprogressivenessUnfeminine of any woman to speakcontinuously anywhereUniversal censor's angry spiteUnseemly hour—unbetimesUnshamed exuberant male has found thesweet reverse in his mateUse your religion like a drugUtterance of generous and patrioticcries is not sufficientVagrant compassionateness ofsentimentalistsVanity maketh the strongest most weakVenerated by his followers, well hatedby his enemiesVenus of nature was melting into aVenus of artVery little parleying betweendetermined menVessel was conspiring to ruin ourself-respectVictims of the modern feminine 'ideal'Violent summons to accept, which is aprovocation to denyVirtue of impatienceVirtuously zealous in an instant onbehalf of the lovely dameVowed never more to repeat that offenceto his patienceVulgarity in others evoked vulgarity inherWait till the day's ended before youcurse your luckWaited serenely for the certaindisasters to enthrone herWakening to the claims of others—Youth's infant conscienceWant of courage is want of senseWar is only an exaggerated form ofduellingWarm, is hardly the word—Winter's warmon skatesWas I true? Not so very false, yet howfar from truth!Was not one of the order whose Muse isthe Public TasteWas born on a hired bedWatch, and waitWe are, in short, a civilized peopleWe shall not be rich—nor poorWe could row and ride and fish andshoot, and breed largelyWe has long overshadowed "I"We are good friends till we quarrelagainWe are chiefly led by hopeWe have a system, not planned but grownWe can bear to fall; we cannot affordto draw backWe can't hope to have what should beWe don't know we are in halvesWe must fawn in societyWe never see peace but in the featuresof the deadWe live alone, and do not much feel ittill we are visitedWe dare not be weak if we wouldWe do not see clearly when we aretrying to deceiveWe women can read men by their power toloveWe were unarmed, and the spectacle wasdistressingWe trust them or we crush themWe shall go together; we shall not haveto weep for one anotherWe make our taskmasters of those towhom we have done a wrongWe cannot relinquish an idea that wasoursWe deprive all renegades of theirspiritual titlesWe like well whatso we have done goodwork forWe grew accustomed to periods of IrishfeverWe have come to think we have a claimupon her gratitudeWe must have some excuse, if we wouldkeep to lifeWe shall want a war to teach thecountry the value of courageWe cannot, men or woman, control theheart in sleep at nightWe have now looked into the hazyinterior of their systemsWe don't go together into a garden ofrosesWe're treated like old-fashionedornaments!We're all of us hit at last, andgenerally by our own weaponWe're a peaceful people, but 'ware whotouches usWe're smitten to-day in our hearts andour pocketsWe've all a parlous lot too much pulpitin usWeak stomach is certainly more carnallyvirtuous than a full oneWeak reeds who are easily vanquishedand never overcomeWeak souls are much moved by having thepathos on their sideWeather and women have some resemblancethey sayWeighty little word—woman's nativewatchdog and guardian (No!)Welcomed and lured on an adversary towild outhittingWell, sir, we must sell our opiumWelsh blood is queer bloodWent into endless invalid's laughterWere I chained, For liberty I wouldsell libertyWhat might have beenWhat the world says, is what the windsaysWhat will be thought of me? not a smallmatter to any of usWhat he did, she took among otherinevitable mattersWhat a stock of axioms young peoplehave handyWhat a woman thinks of women, is thetest of her natureWhat else is so consolatory to a ruinedman?What was this tale of Emilia, that grewmore and more perplexingWhat ninnies call Nature in booksWhat a man hates in adversity is to see'faces'What's an eccentric? a child growngrey!When you run away, you don't live tofight another dayWhen we see our veterans tottering totheir fallWhen to loquacious fools with patiencerare I listenWhen testy old gentlemen could commitslaughter with ecstasyWhen he's a Christian instead of aChurchmanWhen Love is hurt, it is self-love thatrequires the opiateWhen duelling flourished on our land,frail women powerfulWhen we despair or discolour things, itis our senses in revoltWhen you have done laughing with her,you can laugh at herWhere fools are the fathers of everymiracleWhere one won't and can't, poort' other mustWhere she appears, the first personfalls to second rankWhere heart weds mind, or nature joinsintellectWhere love exists there is goodnessWhimpering fits you said we enjoy andmust have in booksWho venerate when they loveWho cannot talk!—but who can?Who rises from Prayer a better man, hisprayer is answeredWho beguiles so much as Self?Who shrinks from an hour that issuspended in doubtWho in a labyrinth wandereth withoutclueWho enjoyed simple things whencommanding the luxuriesWho can really think, and not thinkhopefully?Who cries, Come on, and prays his godsyou won'tWho so intoxicated as the convalescentcatching at health?Who shuns true friends flies fortune inthe concreteWho ever loved that loved not at firstsight?Whole body of fanatics combined toprecipitate the devotionWhose bounty was worse to him than hisabuseWhy should these men take so muchkilling?Why, he'll snap your head off for awordWhy he enjoyed the privilege of seeing,and was not beside herWife and no wife, a prisoner in libertyWilfrid perceived that he had become anold manWill not admit the existence of avirtue in an opposite opinionWilliam John Fleming was simply a poorfarmerWin you—temperately, let us hope; bystorm, if need beWinds of panic are violently engaged inoccupying the vacuumWins everywhere back a reflection ofits own kindlinessWinter mornings are divine. They moveon noiselesslyWise in not seeking to be too wiseWith that I sail into the darkWith good wine to wash it down, one canswallow anythingWith what little wisdom the world isgovernedWith death; we'd rather not, because ofa qualmWith one idea, we see nothing—nothingbut itselfWith a frozen fish of admirableprinciples for wifeWith this money, said the demon, youmight speculateWith a proud humilityWithdrew into the entrenchments ofcontemptWithout a single intimation that heloathed the taskWithout those consolatory efforts,useless between menWits, which are ordinarily lessproductive than landWives are only an item in the list, andnot the most importantWoman descending from her ideal to thegross reality of manWoman will be the last thing civilizedby ManWoman finds herself on board arudderless vesselWoman's precious word No at thesentinel's post, and alertWomen are wonderfully quick scholarsunder ridiculeWomen with brains, moreover, are allheartlessWomen are taken to be the secondthoughts of the CreatorWomen don't care uncommonly for the menwho love themWomen must not be judging things out oftheir sphereWomen and men are in two hostile campsWomen treat men as their tamedhousematesWomen are swift at coming toconclusions in these mattersWomen are happier enslavedWon't do to be taking in reefs on alee-shoreWonderment that one of her sex shouldhave ideasWooing her with dog's eyes instead ofwordsWooing a good man for his friendshipWork of extravagance upon perceptiblyplain matterWork is medicineWorld cannot pardon a breach ofcontinuityWorld against us It will not keep usfrom trying to serveWorld is ruthless, dear friends,because the world is hypocriteWorld prefers decorum to honestyWorld voluntarily opens a path to thosewho step determinedlyWould like to feel he was doing a bitof goodWould he see what he aims at? let himask his heelsWrapped in the comfort of his cowardiceWriter society delights in, to showwhat it is composed ofYawns coming alarmingly fast, in theplace of ideasYears are the teachers of the greatrocky naturesYet, though Angels smile, shall notDevils laughYou accuse or you exonerate—Nobody canbe half guiltyYou choose to give yourself to anobscure dogYou rides when you can, and you walkswhen you mustYou talk your mother with a vengeanceYou do want polishYou who may have cared for her throughher many tribulations, have no fearYou are entreated to repress alarmYou beat me with the fists, but myspirit is toweringYou can master pain, but not doubtYou are not married, you are simplychainedYou have not to be told that I desireyour happiness above allYou are to imagine that they knoweverythingYou may learn to know yourself throughloveYou want me to flick your indecisionYou saw nothing but handkerchiefs outall over the theatreYou played for gain, and that was alicenced thievingYou'll have to guess at half ofeverything he tells youYou'll tell her you couldn't sit downin her presence undressedYou're the puppet of your women!You're talking to me, not to a galleryYou're a rank, right-down widow, and nomistakeYou're going to be men, meaningsomething better than womenYou've got no friend but your bedYoung as when she looked upon thelovers in ParadiseYour devotion craves an enormousexchangeYouth will not believe that stupidityand beauty can go togetherYouth is not alarmed by the sound ofbig sums