Very different were our fizgigs at Brambles'. Neither powder nor pepper (you know) was adulterated in those days, and if you made a fizgig, why it blossomed and starred like a golden thistle, flashed into a myriad sparklets like a tiny fountain for Queen Mab and her troupe to dance around.

The Daughters of the Flood have ſearch'd the Mead / For Violets pale, and cropt the Poppy's Head: / The Short Narciſſus and fair Daffodil, / Pancies to pleaſe the Sight, and Caſſia ſvveet to ſmell: […]

It serveth the inhabitants with fresh water walming out of springs, though itself be on all sides circumpassed about with the sea.

Would but your mother permit you to send her chariot, or chaise, to the bye-place where Mr Lovelace proposes Lord M.'s shall come […].