“Every Man Out of His Humour”
Epilogue.—
“The throat of war be stopt within her land,
And turtle-footed peace dance fairie rings
About her court.”
“Turtle-footed” is a pretty word, a very pretty word: pray, what does it mean? Doves, I presume, are not dancers; and the other sort of turtle, land or sea, green-fat or hawksbill, would, I should suppose, succeed better in slow minuets than in the brisk rondillo. In one sense, to be sure, pigeons and ring-doves could not dance but with éclat—a claw!