One might hope, might almost see, that he was coming to his better senses on a certain subject.

As for style overriding the worst of indignities, has not Scotia given her poet to the slack dependant of the gallows-tree, who so rantingly played his jig and wheeled it round in the shadow of that institution?
Style was his, he hit on the right style to top the situation, and perpetually will he slip his head out of the noose to dance the poet's verse.
In fact, style is the mantle of greatness; and say that the greatness is beyond our reach, we may at least pray to have the mantle.
Strangest of fancies, most unphilosophically, Gower conceived a woman's love as that which would bestow the gift upon a man so bare of it as he.

Where was the woman?
He embraced the idea of the sex, and found it resolving to a form of one.

He stood humbly before the one, and she waned into swarms of her sisters.

So did she charge him with the loving of her sex, not her.