BULLER.
What a picture!
NORTH.
And the Fowls of the Air—think ye not the Eagle, storm-driven not unalarmed along that league-long face of cliff, is now glad at heart, pruning the wing that shall carry him again, like a meteor, into the subsided skies?
BULLER.
What it is to have an imagination! Worth all my Estate.
NORTH.
Let us exchange.
BULLER.
Not possible. Strictly entailed.