They are a forest foliage--rustle of silks and muslins, magic interweaving, or the mythology, if you prefer it.

See, hear, smell, they are Juno, Venus, Hebe, to you.

We must have poetry with them; otherwise they are better in the kitchen.

Is there--but there is not; there is not present one of the chivalrous breeched who could prefer the shocking emancipated gristly female, which imposes propriety on our sensations and inner dreams, by petrifying in the tender bud of them.
Colonel Corfe is the man to hear on such a theme.

He is a colonel of Companies.