Coole violets, and orpine growing still,/Embathed balme, and chearfull galingale,/Fresh costmarie, and breathfull camomill, /Dull poppie, and drink-quickning setuale*,/Veyne-healing verven, and hed-purging dill,/Sound savorie, and bazil hartie-hale,/Fat colworts, and comfórting perseline**,/Colde lettuce, and refreshing rosmarine.

[* Setuale, valerian.][** Perseline, purslain.]

Author and Texts

Now Ambrose Paræus convinced my father, that the true and efficient cause of what had engaged so much the attention of the world, and upon which Prignitz and Scroderus had wasted so much learning and fine parts—-was neither this nor that—-but that the length and goodness of the nose was owing simply to the softness and flaccidity in the nurse’s breast——as the flatness and shortness of puisne noses was to the firmness and elastic repulsion of the same organ of nutrition in the hale and lively–which, tho’ happy for the woman, was the undoing of the child, inasmuch as his nose was so snubb’d, so rebuff’d, so rebated, and so refrigerated thereby, as never to arrive ad mensuram suam legitimam; —-but that in case of the flaccidity and softness of the nurse or mother’s breast–by sinking into it, quoth Paræus, as into so much butter, the nose was comforted, nourish’d, plump’d up, refresh’d, refocillated, and set a growing for ever.

Author and Text

In his tulip-garden there by the town,
Overlooking the sluggish stream,
With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown,
The old sea-captain, hale and brown,
Walks in a waking dream

Auhor and Texts

I SAW a gray-haired man, a figure of hale age, sitting at a desk and writing.

Author and Texts

A powerful current of warm breath issued at regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble.

Of that house A. Horne is lord. Seventy beds keeps he there teeming mothers are wont that they lie for to thole and bring forth bairns hale so God’s angel to Mary quoth. Watchers tway there walk, white sisters in ward sleepless. Smarts they still, sickness soothing: in twelve moons thrice an hundred. Truest bedthanes they twain are, for Horne holding wariest ward.

Author and Texts