We had a feast to celebrate the harvest.

Don't cry, honey. Tell me what's wrong.

Many a dry drop ſeem'd a vveeping teare, / Shed for the ſlaughtred husband by the vvife. / The red bloud reek'd to ſhevv the Painters ſtrife, / And dying eyes gleem'd forth their aſhie lights, / Like dying coales burnt out in tedious nights.

1926, Dorothy E. Newton, The Bisexuality of Individual Strains of Coprinus Rostrupianus