There is a worm by Phoebus bred, By leaves of mulberry is fed, Which unprovided where to dwell, Conforms itself to weave a cell.

[…] the Uncle had more than once elevated his Voice, so as to be heard down Stairs;

He were a-going to gie I summat for’n, but like enough it’ll be worth more to a gent like yourself.

Should I , in these my borrow'd flaunts, behold The sternness of his presence?