By this standard, Tracy Kidder's book is not too cobby.
Hee may perchance, in taile of a Sheriffes dinner, / Skip with a rime o’the Table, from New-nothing, / And take his Almaine-leape into a custard, / Shall make my Lad Maioresse, and her sisters, / Laugh all their hoods ouer their shoulders.
Crash the cull—down with him—down with him before he dubs the jigger. Tip him the degan, Fib, fake him through and through; if he pikes we shall all be scragged.
‘Regrettably, I have concluded, after considering the matter over Christmas[…], that I can no longer maintain the high standard of service I require of myself, meet the demands of office and cope with the pressures of public life, without my health deteriorating further.’
