‘Aye,’ said WS, still in bed, scratching his baldness, examining the furfur in his fingernails.

Besides, I am a man of the people. I like the working class, and am willing to be thought one of them.

The centre spike of gold Which burns deep in the blue-bell's womb.

[…] rocky pinnacles, from whence he sends forth a sort of choking chattering song, if such it can be called, or, with an upjerk of the tail, hops away with a loud musical whistle, very much after the manner of the Blackbird.