There are poets, and then there are poets

 It would not have surprised you to learn that Esmond Haddock was the author of sonnet sequences of a fruity and emotional nature which had made him the toast of Bloomsbury, for his air was that of a man who could rhyme "love" and "dove" as well as the next chap. Nor would you have been astonished if informed that he had recently felled an ox with a single blow. You would simply have felt what an ass the ox must have been to get into an argument with a fellow with a chest like that.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Just call me Bertie

       "Let Madeline Bassett become hep to what has occurred and there can be but one result. Gussie will get the bum's rush, and the bowed figure you will see shambling down the aisle at her side, while the customers reach for their hats and the organ plays 'The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden' will be that of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster."

    "I didn't know your name was Wilberforce."

    I explained that except in moments of great emotion one hushed it up.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

It tends not to promote romance

There had been moments when it had been touch and go, notably on the occasion when Gussie got lit up like a candelabra and in that condition presented the prizes to the young scholars of Market Snodsbury Grammar School. She had scratched his nomination then, though subsequently relenting, and it could not but be that she could scratch it again, should she discover that the man on whom she looked as a purer, loftier spirit than other men had received an exemplary sentence for wading in the Trafalgar Square fountain. Nothing puts an idealistic girl off a fellow more than the news that he is doing fourteen days in the jug.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Perhaps a standing ovation?

 This came under the head of tidings of great joy. Too often at these binges the Brass Hats in charge tell you off to render the "Yoeman's Wedding Song," which for some reason always arouse the worst passions of the tough eggs who stand behind the back row. But no rustic standees have ever been known not to eat a knockabout cross-talk act. There is something about the spectacle of Performer A sloshing Performer B over the head with an umbrella and Performer B prodding Performer A in the midriff with a similar blunt instrument that seems to speak to their depths. Wearing a green beard and given adequate assistance by my supporting cast, I could confidently anticipate that I should have the clientele rolling in the aisles.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Happy days again

 Even as his lips parted, there was a noise like a rising pheasant from the outskirts, and some solid object left the ranks and hurled itself on Constable Dobbs's chest. Closer inspection showed this to be Queenie. She was clinging to the representative of the Law like a poultice, and from the fact that she was saying, "Oh, Ernie!'" and bedewing his uniform with happy tears I deduced, being pretty shrewd, that what she was trying to convey was that all was forgiven and forgotten and that she was expecting the prompt return of the ring, the letters, and the china ornament with "A Present From Blackpool" on it. And as it did not escape my notice that he, on his side, was covering her upturned face with burning kisses and saying, "Oh, Queenie!" I gathered that Tortured Souls Preferred had taken another upward trend and that one could chalk up to the slate two more sundered hearts reunited in the springtime.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

In short, he is a brat

 This Thos is one of those tough, hardboiled striplings, a sort of juvenile James Cagney with a touch of Edward G. Robinson. He has carroty hair and a cynical expression, and his manner is supercilious. You would think that anyone conscious of having a mother like my Aunt Agatha and knowing it could be proved against him, would be crushed and apologetic, but this is not the case. He swanks about the place as if he'd bought it, and in conversation with a cousin lacks tact and is apt to verge on the personal.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Entirely too cheerful

 Though howling hurricanes and driving rainstorms would have been a more suitable accompaniment to the run of the action, the morning - or morn, if you prefer to string along with Aunt Charlotte - was bright and fair. My nervous system was seriously disordered, and one of God's less likeable creatures with about a hundred and fourteen legs had crawled down the back of my neck and was doing its daily dozen on the sensitive skin, but did Nature care? Not a hoot. The sky continued blue, and the fatheaded sun which I have mentioned shone smilingly throughout.

(from The Mating Season, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)