“If you will do her that favour, Copperfield,” replied Mr. Micawber, rising. “I have no scruple in saying, in the presence of our friends here, that I am a man who has, for some years, contended against the pressure of pecuniary difficulties.” I knew he was certain to say something of this kind; he always would be so boastful about his difficulties. “Sometimes I have risen superior to my difficulties. Sometimes my difficulties have⁠—in short, have floored me. There have been times when I have administered a succession of facers to them; there have been times when they have been too many for me, and I have given in, and said to Mrs. Micawber, in the words of Cato, ‘Plato, thou reasonest well. It’s all up now. I can show fight no more.’ But at no time of my life,” said Mr. Micawber, “have I enjoyed a higher degree of satisfaction than in pouring my griefs (if I may describe difficulties, chiefly arising out of warrants of attorney and promissory notes at two and four months, by that word) into the bosom of my friend Copperfield.”