now,

"Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth,"
(Shakespeare.)

Louisa lay, pleased to the heart, pleased to her utmost capacity of
being so, with every fibre in those parts, stretched almost to breaking,
on a rack of joy, whilst the instrument of all this over-fullness
searched her senses with its sweet excess, till the pleasure gained upon
her so, its point stung her so home, that catching at length the rage
from her furious driver and sharing the riot of his wild rapture, she
went wholly out of her mind into that favourite part of her body, the
whole intenseness of which was so fervously filled, and employed:
there alone she existed, all lost in those delirious transports, those
extasies of the senses, which her winking eyes, the brightened vermilion
of her lips and cheeks, and sighs of pleasure deeply fetched, so
pathetically expressed. In short, she was now as mere a machine as much
wrought on, and had her motions as little at her own command, as the
natural himself, who, thus broke in upon her, made her feel with a
vengeance his tempestuous mettle he battered with; their active loins
quivered again with the violence of their conflict, till the surge of
pleasure, foaming and raging to a height, drew down the pearly shower
that was, to allay this hurricane. The purely sensitive idiot then first
shed those tears of joy that attend its last moments, not without an
agony of delight, and even almost a roar of rapture, as the gush escaped
him; so sensibly too for Louisa, that she kept him faithful company,
going off, in consent, with the old symptoms: a delicious delirium, a
tremendous convulsive shudder, and the critical dying: Oh! And now, on
his getting off she lay pleasure-drenched, and regorging its essential
sweets; but quite spent, and gasping for breath, without other sensation
of life than in those exquisite vibrations that trembled still on the
strings of delight; which had been too intensively touched, and which
nature had so ravishingly stirred with, for the senses to be quickly at
peace from.

As for the changeling, whose curious engine had been thus successfully
played off, his shift of countenance and gesture had even something
droll, or rather tragi-comic in it: there was now an air of sad repining
foolishness, superadded to his natural one of no meaning and idiotism,
as he stood with his label of manhood, now lank, unstiffened, becalmed,
and flapping