Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.
Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.