O false heart! thou hadst almost betrayed me to eternal flames, and lost me this glory.

[T]hou mayſt know / What miſerie th' inabſtinence of Eve / Shall bring on men. Immediately a place / Before his eyes appeard, ſad, noyſom, dark, / A Lazar-houſe it ſeemd, wherein were laid / Numbers all diſeas'd, […] / […] / Dæmoniac Phrenzie, moaping Melancholie / And Moon-ſtruck madneſs, pining Atrophie, / Maraſmus and wide-waſting Peſtilence.

Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March to-day. We can run down there any time, and it′s really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross.

come home