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Little De Roye, who was a very, pretty German lass at her house, informed me of it, and made me amends for the infidelity of the mistress, whose choice, to tell you the truth, did not mortify me much, because she had nothing but beauty, which cloys when it comes alone.
She is a woman of vigorous thought, but not very poetical thought, and throwing herself into verse involuntarily becomes honied and ornate, so that her verse cloys. It is not natural, quite. Tennyson's world is purple, and all his thoughts. Therefore his poetry is so, and so naturally.
We may observe an effeminacy of style, in some degree corresponding to effeminacy of character. Writers of this stamp are great interliners of what they indite, alterers of indifferent phrases, and the plague of printers' devils. By an effeminate style I would be understood to mean one that is all florid, all fine; that cloys by its sweetness, and tires by its sameness.
The highest good is immortal: it knows no ending, and does not admit of either satiety or regret: for a right-thinking mind never alters or becomes hateful to itself, nor do the best things ever undergo any change: but pleasure dies at the very moment when it charms us most: it has no great scope, and therefore it soon cloys and wearies us, and fades away as soon as its first impulse is over: indeed, we can not depend upon anything whose nature is to change.
There they retired to the niche formed by the deep walls of the broad central window of the house, and Herr Berthold Pfinzing whispered to his wife: "There was too much philanthropy and kindness for me in there. A great deal of honey at once cloys me. But you, prophetess, foresaw what is now occurring, and I, too, scarcely expected anything different.
Leave that fictitious good your fancy feigns, For scenes where real bliss eternal reigns: Look to that region of immortal joys, Where fear disturbs not, nor possession cloys; Beyond what Fancy forms of rosy bowers, Or blooming chaplets of unfading flowers; Fairer than o'er imagination drew, Or poet's warmest visions ever knew.
In truth, there are some faults in men which we women do not do not altogether dislike. They cause us they make us oh, I cannot express exactly what I mean. They make us more eager perhaps. A too constant man is like an overstrong sweet: he cloys us. The faults I speak of hurt us; but we thrive on them. Women enjoy pain now and then.
He was of Dante's mind The arrow seen beforehand slacks its flight. The Religio Medici was Sir Thomas Browne's first book, and the Christian Morals was his last; but the two books are of such affinity to one another that they will always be thought of together. Only, the style that was already almost too rich for our modern taste in the Religio absolutely cloys and clogs us in the Morals.
“Gold pleasure buys; But pleasure dies, For soon the gross fruition cloys; Though raptures court, The sense is short; But virtue kindles living joys;— “Joys felt alone! Joys asked of none! Which Time’s and fortune’s arrows miss: Joys that subsist, Though fates resist, An unprecarious, endless bliss! “Unhappy they! And falsely gay!
Is it humbug?" "I am afraid it is; but humbug is the sweet oil that helps this whirling world of ours to spin round smoothly. Too much of it cloys: we drop it very gently." "But you are sure it is only humbug, Tommy?" It was Peter's voice into which fear had entered now. "It is not that you think he understands you better than I do would do more for you?"
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