“Sister, where you bound on such a hot, hot, sweltersome night?” you asked.

Or, in the case of some of my dad's punters, there to deprive the wife and kids of any extra by putting it on an each-way bet on the 3 o'clock at Redcar.

From its surface, he insisted, plain food became ambrosia, water nectar, and the duffest dope would blow your mind.

[…] Well, believe this, No ceremony that to great ones ’longs, Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe, Become them with one half so good a grace As mercy does.