But when, obedient to the mode / Of panegyric, courtly ode / The bard bestrides, his annual hack, / In vain I taste, and sip and smack, / I find no flavour of the Sack.
… I can remember every volume among the three or four hundred books that made up the library of my father, the country doctor—three or four hundred besides those portentous leather-clad depositories of medical mystery filled with color plates depicting the awful intimacies of the innards;
It's a good day off us anyhow, and they're all going south-west by south full pelt as hard as they can go.
The scops is a native of the warmer parts of Europe, and is of a migratory nature.
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