"You had better pick out some old man—some white-headed or bald-headed swain."
"No, thank you."
"You could lead some doting fool: you might pin him to your apron."
"I might do that with a boy; but it is not my vocation. Did I not say I prefer a master? One in whose presence I shall feel obliged and disposed to be good. One whose control my impatient temper must acknowledge. A man whose approbation can reward—whose displeasure punish me. A man I shall feel it impossible not to love, and very possible to fear."
"What is there to hinder you from doing all this with Sir Philip? He is a baronet; a man of rank, property, connections, far above yours. If you talk of intellect, he is a poet: he writes verses; which you, I take it, cannot do, with all your cleverness."
"Neither his title, wealth, pedigree, nor poetry, avail to invest him with the power I describe. These are feather-weights: they want ballast: a measure of sound, solid, practical sense would have stood him in better stead with me."
"You and Henry rave about poetry: you used to catch fire like tinder on the subject when you were a girl."
"Oh! uncle, there is nothing really valuable in this world, there is nothing glorious in the world to come, that is not poetry!"
"Marry a poet, then, in God's name!"
"Show him me, and I will."
"Sir Philip."
