Soft, to your places, animals, Your legendary duty calls.
—Thomas Kinsella, Another September, 1958
—Go—says he, one day at dinner, to an overgrown [fly] which had buzz'd about his nose, and tormented him cruelly all dinner-time,— and which, after infinite attempts, he had caught at last, as it flew by him;—I'll not hurt thee, says my uncle Toby, rising from his chair, and going across the room, with the fly in his hand,—I'll not hurt a hair of thy head:—Go, says he, lifting up the sash, and opening his hand as he spoke, to let it escape;—go poor
