[B]y the Path-way green, / A ſprightlie Troupe ſtill onward heedleſſe ſped, / In Chace of Butterflies alert and keen; / Honours, and Wealth, and Powre, their Butterflies I ween.

Make any sudden movements and I will drop you!

Here were rooms crowded with uncomfortable-looking beds, on which lay men whose gangrened wounds gave forth foul odors, which, mingled with the terrible effluvia from the mouths of patients ill of scurvy, sent a shuddering sickness through my frame.

It were dishonour in me to yield. I will not play the part of an impostor, whom my uncle must despise even while he screens. No; these estates are his right: let him take them; I will not buy them with his daughter's hand.