I could ride around some and listen to country music songs about drinking and cheating and losing love and finding it, since it looked like I wasn't going to be pumping any red-hot baby batter into my own favorite womb any time soon.

He falls, and lashing up his heels, his rider throws.

And in faith Sir unlesse your hospitalitie doe releeve us, wee are like to wander with a sorrowfull hey ho, among the owlets, & Hobgoblins of the Forrest […]

I Find, tho’ I have leſs experience than you, the truth of what you told me ſome time ago, that increaſe of years makes men more talkative but leſs writative: to that degree, that I now write no letters but of plain buſineſs, or plain how-d’ye’s, to thoſe few I am forced to correſpond with, either out of neceſſity, or love: And I grow Laconic even beyond Laconiciſme; for ſometimes I return only Yes, or No, to queſtionary or petitionary Epiſtles of half a yard long.