that sweet grove Of Daphne by Orontes, and th'inspir'd Castalian spring

I looked away and cursed under my breath, waving angrily at some looky-loos who are slowing down and craning their necks to see their quota of other people's misery for the day.

Hmm. Made an excuse, did he? Not as gormless as he looks in press photographs, then.

Breezes blowing from beds of iris quickened her breath with their perfume; she saw the tufted lilacs sway in the wind, and the streamers of mauve-tinted wistaria swinging, all a-glisten with golden bees; she saw a crimson cardinal winging through the foliage, and amorous tanagers flashing like scarlet flames athwart the pines.