Dowle

You fools! I and my fellows Are ministers of fate: the elements Of whom your swords are temper'd may as well Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish One dowle that's in my plume; […]

a. 1859, De Quincey, Notes on Godwin Foster and Hazlitt, at page 304 in the collected works' volume of 1864. No feather, or dowle of a feather, but was heavy enough for him.