Yours is the language of the heavens, the power,
The thought, the image, and the silent joy.
Words are but under-agents in your soul.
Wordsworth.
16. You take delight in others' excellence,
A gift which nature rarely doth dispense;
Of all that breathe, 'tis you, perhaps, alone,
Would be well pleased to see yourself outdone.
Young—Epistles.
17. You are the Punch to stir up trouble,