What if / Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive / Through utter dark a full-sail'd skiff, / Unpiloted i' the echoing dance / Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low / Unto the death, not sunk!

Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit.

Let the wicked flatter themselves that all is but talk of any coming to judgment ; non aliud videre patres, aliudve nepotes aspicient; all is but terriculamenta nutricum, mere scare-babes.

my own grandfather, some time Bishop of Edinburgh, among its Primuses