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.

[…] he was […] carried to the Scaffold on the Tower-hill […], himself praying all the way, and recording upon the words which he before had read.

[…] the tiranny of her ſorrowes takes all liuelihood from her cheeke.

Paul went joyfully, and spent the afternoon helping to hoe or to single turnips with his friend.