Blot

England bound in with the triumphant ſea, / Whoſe rocky ſhore beates backe the enuious ſiedge / Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with ſhame, / With Inky blottes, and rotten Parchment bonds.

When I and some others subscribed our names / To a plot for expelling my master king James [James II of England]; / I withdrew my subscription by help of a blot, / And so might discover or gain by the plot: […]

Her utmost powers of expression (which were certainly not great in ink) were exhausted in the attempt to write what she felt on the subject of my journey. Four sides of incoherent and interjectional beginnings of sentences, that had no end, except blots, were inadequate to afford her any relief. But the blots were more expressive to me than the best composition; for they showed me that Peggotty had been crying all over the paper, and what could I have desired more?

[…] He was blind; he could not see the stars Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud; Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green, Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.

But, like more than one similar North Wales beauty-spot, there had to be (at least at the time of which I write), a quarry, or ironworks, or some kind of industrial plant, which lay perpetually under a cloud of yellowish smoke—literally a blot on the landscape.

Thy ouerflow of good, conuerts to bad, / And thy abundant goodneſſe ſhall excuſe / This deadly blot, in thy digreſſing ſonne.

He that reproueth a ſcorner, getteth to himſelfe ſhame: and he that rebuketh a wicked man, getteth himſelfe a blot.

Thus man devotes his brother, and deſtroys; / And worſe than all, and moſt to be deplored / As human nature’s broadeſt, fouleſt blot, / Chains him, and taſks him, and exacts his ſweat / With ſtripes, that mercy with a bleeding heart / Weeps when ſhe ſees inflicted on a beaſt.