I had grown up a rather prissy kind of guy. I was never the rough-and-tumble, plastic-gun-toting stereotype of a boy. I preferred neat and orderly and clean and bathed to scattered and strewn and grass-stained and smudged. Clothes pressed, shoes shined. Hair combed, activities quiet.

I that am curtaild of this faire proportion / Cheated of feature by diſſembling nature, / Deformd, vnfinisht, ſent before my time / Into this breathing vvorld ſcarce halfe made vp, / And that ſo lamely and vnfaſhionable, / That dogs barke at me as I halt by them: […]

Of course he had overset the gig, for which he must be faulted, but observing the way he was presently driving, he was by no means cow handed.

This essay has too much exposition in it.