There is nothing shews the character of my father and my uncle _Toby_, in a more entertaining light, than their different manner of deportment, under the same accident----for I call not love a misfortune, from a persuasion, that a man's heart is ever the better for it ----Great God! what must my uncle _Toby's_ have been, when 'twas all benignity without it.
My father, as appears from many of his papers, was very subject to this passion, before he married----but from a little subacid kind of drollish impatience in his nature, whenever it befell him, he would never submit to it like a christian; but would pish, and huff, and bounce, and kick, and play the Devil, and write the bitterest Philippicks against the eye that ever man wrote----there is one in verse upon somebody's eye or other, that for two or three nights together, had put him by his rest; which in his first transport of resentment against it, he begins thus:
"A Devil 'tis----and mischief such doth work As never yet did _Pagan_, _Jew_, or _Turk_."[8.5]
In short, during the whole paroxism, my father was all abuse and foul language, approaching rather towards malediction----only he did not do it with as much method as _Ernulphus_----he was too impetuous; nor with _Ernulphus's_ policy----for tho' my father, with the most intolerant spirit, would curse both this and that, and every thing under heaven, which was either aiding or abetting to his love----yet never concluded his chapter of curses upon it, without cursing himself in at the bargain, as one of the most egregious fools and coxcombs, he would say, that ever was let loose in the world.
My uncle _Toby_, on the contrary, took it like a lamb----sat still and let the poison work in his veins without resistance----in the sharpest exacerbations of his wound (like that on his groin) he never dropt one fretful or discontented word----he blamed neither heaven nor earth----or thought or spoke an injurious thing of any body, or any part of it; he sat solitary and pensive with his pipe----looking at his lame leg----then whiffing out a sentimental heigh ho! which mixing with the smoke, incommoded no one mortal.
He took it like a lamb ----I say.

There is nothing that shows the character of my father and my uncle Toby in a more entertaining light, than their different manner under the same accident of love. I do not call love a misfortune, but am persuaded that a man's heart is the better for it.
Great God! what must my uncle Toby's heart have been with love, when 'twas all benignity without it.
My father, as appears from many of his papers, was very subject to this passion before he married - but from a little subacid kind of drollish impatience in his nature, whenever love befell him, he would never submit to it, but would pish, and huff, and bounce, and kick, and play the Devil, and write the bitterest verses that ever man wrote. There is one verse upon somebody's eye that for two or three nights kept him from his rest; which begins thus:
'A Devil 'tis - and mischief such doth work
As never yet did Pagan, Jew, or Turk.'
In short, when in love, my father was all abuse and foul language, cursing this and that and everything under heaven which aided or abetted his love - yet he cursed himself into the bargain, as one of the most egregious fools that ever was let loose in the world.
My uncle Toby, on the contrary, took it like a lamb - sat still and let the poison work in his veins without resistance. In the sharpest pains of the wound (like that on his groin) he never dropped one fretful word - he blamed neither heaven nor earth, or spoke ill of any body. He sat solitary and pensive with his pipe - looking at his lame leg - then whiffing out a sentimental heigh ho! mixed with the smoke.
He took it like a lamb, I say.
