"We won't wait any longer, gentlemen.
Geniuses must be allowed some leeway.

Something has detained our guest." "He's got an idea in his head and has stopped in somewhere to write it down," continued Clayton in his habitual good-natured tone: it was the overdone woodcock--( he had heard Todd's warning)--that still filled his mind.
"I could forgive him for that," exclaimed the judge--"some of his best work, I hear, has been done on the spur of the moment--and you should forgive him too, Clayton--unbeliever and iconoclast as you are--and you WOULD forgive him if you knew as much about new poetry as you do about old port." Clayton's stout body shook with laughter.

"My dear Pancoast," he cried, "you do not know what you are talking about.

No man living or dead should be forgiven who keeps a woodcock on the spit five minutes over time.

Forgive him! Why, my dear sir, your poet ought to be drawn and quartered, and what is left of him boiled in oil.