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Updated: May 14, 2025
Twenty, my dear, do you say? and he turned with practised insolence to a pot-girl in a red shawl who could not have uttered an audible word to save her soul, but who blushed and giggled with pleasure at this mark of attention. 'Ah! you flatter, fair maiden! I look more than twenty, but I think I may say that I do not look thirty. Does any lady or gentleman think I look thirty? No!
Coleridge and David Hartley, and my kind remembrance to Lloyd, if he is with you. See preceding letter. Epistle to Arbuthnot: "Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope." The lines on him which Coleridge had sent to Lamb, and which the latter had burned. January 5, 1797. Sunday Morning. You cannot surely mean to degrade the Joan of Arc into a pot-girl.
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