TICKLER. And was not Tighe an angel, if ever there was one on earth, beautiful, airy, and evanescent, as her own immortal Psyche?
NORTH. She was.
TICKLER. And what the devil then would you be at with your great bawling He-Poets from the Lakes, who go round and round about, strutting upon nothing, like so many turky-cocks gobbling with a long red pendant at their noses, and frightening away the fair and lovely swans as they glide down the waters of immortality?