Remember all yee that by this roune be to paſſ, / And groundly revolue in yowr remembrance, / Both the world is frayle and britle as glaſſ, / The end is death of euery many chance: […] Part of the epitaph on the tomb of Edward Mackwilliams, his son Henry, and his daughter-in-law Anne Spelman in the parish church of Saint Peter and Saint Thomas Becket, Stambourne, Essex.

The country boy felt of her legs, and patted her bottom, and kissed her bubbies, and then he begun to tickle her twitchet.

Grandpa Andy would buy the racing form the day ahead of time so he could handicap the race before he even arrived at the track.

Do you mind if I pull up on you in about half an hour?