But finding theſe North climes do coldly him embrace, / Not vſde to frozen clips, he ſtraue to find ſome part, / Where with most eaſe & warmth he might employ his art: […]

When I short haue shorne my sowce face & swigg’d my horny barrell, In an oaken Inne I pound my skin as a suite of guilt apparrell

[…] I do not want to make inflated claims for the methodological or conceptual novelty of a certain school or group of writers. Claims to historiographical significance set in a methodological key too often turn out to be claims to have reinvented the wheel. On the contrary, what follows is intended merely to provide some account of the current state of historiographical play in the interpretative aftermath of what has come to be called revisionism and to use the figure of Wentworth to do so.

It was a gusty, rainy day, and the rolling white and grey clouds and the lines of haillike lances rode down the sky like a charge.