Damn'd neuters, in their middle way of steering, Are neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red herring.

Phone for the fish-knives, Norman As Cook is a little unnerved; You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes And I must have things daintily served.

I will not make fish one and flesh of another.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.

When rattling bones together fly, / From the four corners of the sky.