I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in. – John Muir, 1913, in Linnie Marsh Wolfe, ed., John of the Mountains: The Unpublis
This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar. – Elizabeth Barrett Browning
