And as a Pible caſt into a Spring, / Wee ſee a ſort of trembling cirkles riſe, / One forming other in theyr iſſuing / Till ouer all the Fount they circulize, / So this perpetuall-motion-making kiſſe, / Is propagate through all my faculties, / And makes my breaſt an endleſſe Fount of bliſſe, / Of which, if Gods could drink, theyr matchleſſe fare / Would make them much more bleſſed then they are.

[…] beside them clung a trumpeter, a whacking big man, an’ between the heavy seas he would lift his trumpet with one hand, and blow a call; and every time he blew the men gave a cheer.

Arriving in Dublin from the Cross Channel steamer

As ſoon as they were parted, the Prieſteſs flounced out of the Houſe, call'd for her Coachman, and bid him put in his Horſes, for away would ſhe go […]