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That
"The poor beetle, which we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
As when a giant dies."
And that a young woman in love always looks
"like Patience on a monument
Smiling at Grief."
So far her improvement was sufficient—and in many other points she came on exceedingly well; for though she could not write sonnets, she brought herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her throwing a whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte, of her own composition, she could listen to other people's performance with very little fatigue. Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil—she had no notion of drawing—not enough even to attempt a sketch
of
