For tis the ſport to haue the enginer / Hoiſt with his ovvne petar, an't ſhall goe hard / But I vvill delue one yeard belovve their mines, / And blovve them at the Moone: […] For it's amusing to have the engineer / Hoisted into the sky with his own explosive, and if I'm lucky / I will dig one yard below their mines, / And blow them towards the Moon: […]

Shortly they came in sight of a sailor’s house constructed of reeds and rushes and ‘uncommonly artfully covered with a huge net; inside of which house a number of mariners and marineresses were dancing their rustic (!) dances.’

No danger of these buzzsaws waking up, it was enough to make you wish for impaired hearing.

Her arms were like legs of mutton, her breasts like giant cabbages; her face, broad and fleshy, gave you an impression of almost indecent nakedness, and vast chin succeeded to vast chin.