That other man has bent down his brow like a bull; you might think him about to toss the orator on his horns.
— from Pan Tadeusz Or, the Last Foray in Lithuania; a Story of Life Among Polish Gentlefolk in the Years 1811 and 1812 by Adam Mickiewicz

Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, Burst down like torrent from its crest; With short and springing footstep pass The trembling bog and false morass; Across the brook like roebuck bound, And thread the brake like questing hound; The crag is high, the scaur is deep, Yet shrink not from the desperate leap: Parched are thy burning lips and brow, Yet by the fountain pause not now; Herald of battle, fate, and fear, Stretch onward in thy fleet career!
— from The Lady of the Lake by Walter Scott

‘What does he do, but, lo and behold you, he goes into a perfumer’s shop, and wants to buy a bottle of the Madagascar Liquid.’
— from David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

His way of sitting, a reproachful statue, motionless outside the window of whomever he wants to come out and play with him—until you can bear it no longer, but must either go into the garden or draw down the blinds for one day; his habit when you are out, of sitting [Pg 233] up on his back legs and begging you with his front paws to come and do something—a trick entirely of his own invention, for no one would think of teaching him anything; his funny nautical roll when he walks, which is nearly a swagger, and gives him always the air of having just come back from some rather dashing adventure; beyond all this there is still something.
— from Happy Days by A. A. (Alan Alexander) Milne

“Love is said to interpret where wisdom fails, and you yourself talk of the marvels which sympathy may effect between lover and beloved; yet when, for days together, I cannot succeed in unravelling Lilian’s wish or her thought—and her own mother is equally in fault—you or Amy, closeted alone with her for five minutes, comprehend and are comprehended.” “Allen,” answered Faber, “
— from A Strange Story — Complete by Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron

For instance, now you like being laughed at before your face, perhaps you will come to like being laughed at behind your back.”
— from Mrs. Farrell by William Dean Howells

Let me see you do it properly, or goodness knows, you will wet the bed like a baby; you are so distrait."
— from Forbidden Fruit: Luscious and exciting story, and More forbidden fruit; or, Master Percy's progress in and beyond the domestic circle by Anonymous

"Right up dar in dat tree, boss," he admitted, "shiverin' all de time, 'case I 'spected dem dawgs'd break loose, and begin yelpin' at de foot ob de same.
— from Motor Boat Boys Mississippi Cruise; or, The Dash for Dixie by Louis Arundel

“How would you like to be laughed at because you were thought to be a coward?
— from To The West by George Manville Fenn

"Love is said to interpret where wisdom fails, and you yourself talk of the marvels which sympathy may effect between lover and beloved; yet when, for days together, I cannot succeed in unravelling Lilian's wish or her thought—and her own mother is equally in fault—you or Amy, closeted alone with her for five minutes, comprehend and are comprehended."
— from A Strange Story — Volume 07 by Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron

Perchance a velvet patch would hide the wearer's secret blemish less artfully; beneath young Miss Kitcat's eyes there might be a deeper violet than the state of her health warranted; my lady Bunbutter newly arrived from scurrilous Bath might see her nose sharpen to a richer carmine point; but half-past eight o'clock would behold them all bound for the Pump Room, somewhat reticent perhaps, a little fretful even, yet completely subjugated by their self-imposed renunciation.
— from The Passionate Elopement by Compton MacKenzie

"We love being looked after by you, Bunting," she said.
— from Abington Abbey: A Novel by Archibald Marshall

Fancy one whole side of an immense church, from the floor to the roof, a grand bank of chorus-singers, as high as Shakspeare's Cliff; each bellowing like a bull; yet each with a voice as finely modulated as the richest violoncello, touched by a master's hand.
— from Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 66, No. 410, December 1849 by Various