Underneath the tipiti is placed an earthenware bowl to receive the juice. … A pole is passed through the loop at the bottom of the tipiti, nd the shorter end of it is lashed to one of the upright posts of the house. The heavy weight … is then hung to the longer end of the pole, so as to produce a powerful leverage on the tipiti, and compress the cassava still further.

At these words, which I suppose I uttered in a tone unlike that of the usual chaunt of monastic conversation, another interposed, and asked what I was uttering in so loud a key? “I am only saying,” I replied, “that I must be a monk.” “Thank God it is no worse,” replied the querist, “your contumacy must long ago have wearied the Superior and the brethren—thank God it’s no worse.”

You may wonder, Sir, (for this seems a little too extravagant and Pindarical for Prose) what I mean by all this Preface […]

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy, / The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy, / With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won, / I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.