It was the first time I had heard Provençal spoken – there seemed to be moss packed between every syllable.

The velocity of flowing waters is very far from being in proportion to the quantity of declivity in their bed: […] .

His loftie browes in foldes, do figure death, And in their ſmoothneſſe, amitie and life:

Duane bumped his elbow. They were on the Christmas pudding. 'Fucking lovely jubbly this, innit?' Duane said.