The morrow next apprear'd with purple hayre / Yet dropping fresh out of the Indian fount, / And bringing light into the heavens fayre […].

They'll hire a new crew of diggers and make them swear to hold their tongues. And then they'll kill them to keep them quiet, like the last nine. Being sick makes me gloomsome. I'm taking Goodwin's potion and going to bed.

The wedding reception was too noisy and crowded for my liking.

Now may you Tranſplant moſt ſorts of Eſculent, or Phyſical plants, &c.