Passion is the drunkenness of the mind. - Robert Southey

[H]e that despairs limits an infinite power to a finite apprehension, and measures Providence by his own little contracted model.

And then she went to the porridge of the Little, Small, Wee Bear, and tasted that; and that was neither too hot nor too cold, but just right.

And last of all an Admiral came,
A terrible man with a terrible name,—
A name which you all know by sight very well,
But which no one can speak, and no one can spell.