The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make their clay creator
The vain title take of lord of thee, and arbiter of war,—
These are thy toys; and as the snowy flake they melt into thy yeast of waves,
Which mar alike the Armada’s pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
—Byron.
EXAMPLES ILLUSTRATING THE USE OF FINAL STRESS.[6]
I won’t!
No, sir; I am not guilty.
Away, slight man!