H. B. Marriott Watson,
Diogenes of London (collection…
(1893)
“ Swift flies the newest humour round and round; the hot blood clamours in the veins; the spirit mounting from the fiery heart breaks out upon the tongue; the rafters echo—we are met at a feast, and old Death himself may not stay us. One leans to another and whispers; the jest flits lightly; Disdain is our only mother. There is no moment of awe at our board; there is never a hush, never an hour but has wings. Is any mute? Let Death take him for the next; he knows not the way of life. Quit, quit, an you have not the fashion of merriment ”
