[…] and in Ireland it so happened, that these four families emerged victorious out of the septal struggles.

In the finished pieces of his youth, when he [John Milton] had a critical eye at every hour on every page, we find no want of corrective touches.

Surely, estates be then best, when they are likest minds that be worst: I mean, neither hot, nor cold: neither distended with too much, nor narrowly pent […]

Where feeling one cloſe couched by her ſide / She lightly lept out of her filed bedd, / And to her weapon ran, in minde to gride / The loathed leachour.