He wandered out again, in a perfect bog of uncertainty.

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; […]

The captain took the conde when he reached the bridge.

And for some reason, they called me Pete. My mother, who probably dug up the name Melvin from some romantic novel about Englishmen drinking tea, cringed at the Pete.