‘Regrettably, I have concluded, after considering the matter over Christmas[…], that I can no longer maintain the high standard of service I require of myself, meet the demands of office and cope with the pressures of public life, without my health deteriorating further.’
Crash the cull—down with him—down with him before he dubs the jigger. Tip him the degan, Fib, fake him through and through; if he pikes we shall all be scragged.
Hee may perchance, in taile of a Sheriffes dinner, / Skip with a rime o’the Table, from New-nothing, / And take his Almaine-leape into a custard, / Shall make my Lad Maioresse, and her sisters, / Laugh all their hoods ouer their shoulders.
By this standard, Tracy Kidder's book is not too cobby.
