You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Can you afford to give this time? There are your own affairs to think of. I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming.
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