One of the greatest charms of fox-hunting undoubtedly is, that it disposes of all the dirty weather which goes to make up three-fourths of an English winter. Wet, and drizzle, and muggy fog (the characteristics of our brumous and insular climate, according to numerous French authorities), are the capital on which it trades. To the hunting man a rainy morning in winter […] means sport, and society, and enjoyment.

[S]till by the maid / Love went submiss, with eye more dangerous / Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er / Too bold approached, […]

He’s turned out to be a true friend.

Keep a good paper trail in case anyone asks you why you arrived at that conclusion.