There is nothing that kills my ladyboner more than the prospect of marriage.

Buried was the bloody hatchet, / Buried was the dreadful war-club, / Buried were all warlike weapons, / And the war-cry was forgotten.

Sirius in the mouth of the watch dog vied in the dignity and importance of the significance of its ascent with the midnight appearance of Vindemiatrix in the left elbow of the headless virgin, on the horizon at the winter sunstead of six months later.

All centre-bound, exactly circular: No sportive way it takes, at large and free, No gambol plays of freakful liberty […]