The world is well amended (thought I) with your cidership; such
another forty years’ nap together as Epimenides had would make
you a perfect wise man. Answer me (quoth he), my wise young
Wilton; is it true that I am thus underhand dead and buried by
these bad tongues? Nay (quoth I), you shall pardon me, for I
have spoken too much already; no definitive sentence of death
shall march out of my well-meaning lips; they have but lately
sucked milk, and shall they so suddenly change their food, and
seek after blood?