Book 2, Chapter 18

⁠​​​‌​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​​​​‌​⁠“Oh, sir, the loftiest hopes on earth Draw lots with meaner hopes: heroic breasts, Breathing bad air, run risk of pestilence; Or, lacking lime-juice when they cross the Line, May languish with the scurvy.”

Some weeks passed after this conversation before the question of the chaplaincy gathered any practical import for Lydgate, and without telling himself the reason, he deferred the predetermination