“And nothing more?”
“Nothing but the glory,” quoth Willy, “at which there is always such a clatter of feet upon the floor, and creaking of benches, and rustling of gowns, and bustle of bonnets, and justle of cushions, and dust of mats, and treading of toes, and punching of elbows, from the spitefuller, that one wishes to be fairly out of it, after the scramble for the peace of God is at an end—”
Sir Thomas threw himself back upon his armchair, and exclaimed in wonderment, “How!”
William Shakspeare.
“—and in the midst of the service again, were it possible. For nothing is painfuller than to have the pail shaken off the head when it is brim-full of the waters of life, and we are walking staidly under it.”
Sir Thomas.
“Had the learned Doctor preached again in the evening, pursuing the thread of his discourse, he might, peradventure, have made up the deficiencies I find in him.”
William Shakspeare.
“He had not that opportunity.”
Sir Thomas.