A vast epicurean, a consummate egotist, ripe with feeling and rich with energy, he could not believe that when he spoke the heavens would not fall.

The stinging sweetness of the morning was a tonic to all his energies, an elation to his mind; he swaggered through the lush grasses and boskage as though marching to a marriage.
Leicester, on his part, no more caught at the meaning of the morning, at the long whisper of enlivened nature, than did his foe.

The day gave to him no more than was his right.

If the day was not fine, then Leicester was injured; but if the day was fine, then Leicester had his due.

Moral blindness made him blind for the million deep teachings trembling round him.