quilt

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morne / Upon her wings presents the god unshorne. / See how Aurora throwes her faire / Fresh-quilted colours through the aire; / Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see / The dew bespangling herbe and tree.

I am glad, said Mr. Slick, that cussed critter, that schoolmaster, hasn't yet woke up. I'm most afeerd if he had aturned out afore we started, I should have quilted him, for that talk of his last night sticks in my crop considerable hard.