Peace, thou clacking tongue!

A piteous thing, a hollow, sighing wretch,
Whose very shadow doth lack substance, and
Whose words, like chaff before the wind, are blown
To nothing ere they touch a listening ear.

I have no wish for further converse with thee.

Thou hast rehearsed this tale unto mine ears full oft, till every word doth ring with weary sameness, like a bell that tolls the self-same hour.

A cat! A whiskered shadow, sleek and sly,
That stalks the hearth with velvet-padded tread,
And in its amber eye doth hold the fire
Of ancient secrets, ere the world was young.