The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; In fact, he had no singing education, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow.
Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
The dew of compassion is a tear.
What a strange thing man is; and what a stranger thing woman.
There is no instinct like that of the heart.