human
Believe me, this verse-making is a fever in the blood, protested Barnaby.
gpt
Naught serves until the rhyme is found. It is a madness, like love of a lad for a maid. There is no rhyme to Puritan.
human
Friend, said Michael,
gpt
I need sleep, if you do not. Remember what I said last night. Puri*tane* one—try it that way. Get your man round to the King’s cause, and he becomes a _sane one_.
human
But, sir——
gpt
We have a saying in Yoredale: ’I canna help your troubles, friend; I’ve enough of my own.’ Take it or leave it at Puri*tane* one. For myself, I’m going to sleep.