The figures on the summit of Parnassus were seen bobbing in happy placidity against the twilight sky.

The sun had sunk, and many of Mr.Raikes' best things were unspoken.

Wandering about in his gloom, he heard a feminine voice: 'Yes, I will trust you.' 'You will not repent it,' was answered.
Recognizing the Duke, Mr.Raikes cleared his throat.
'A-hem, your Grace! This is how the days should pass.

I think we should diurnally station a good London band on high, and play his Majesty to bed--the sun.

My opinion is, it would improve the crops.