Enjoy such liberty.
Lovelace, To Althea, from Prison
(4) Each little pimple had a tear in it,
To wail the fault its rising did commit.
Dryden, Upon the Death of the Lord Hastings
(5) The plants, whose luxury was lopped,
Or age with crutches underpropped,
Whose wooden carcases are grown
To be but coffins of their own,
Revive, and at her general dole,