Here they dismounted, lariated their horses, in order that they might enjoy the long, green grass growing near the banks of the brook; and bathing their faces in the cool, sparkling water, they partook sparingly of their provisions.
Frank Fisher’s butcher’s shop had been in business, he liked to tell people, for more than 300 years. A while back, a signpainter was commissioned to advertise this fact on an outside wall, in case any strangers should pass through the market town of Dronfield in Derbyshire and feel compelled to stop and inspect a time capsule.
Their food consisted of shells, worms, and Ophiures.
So we have Hero writing not very feministly to Leander: 'I cannot be patient for Love! We burn with equal fires, but I am not equal to you in strength; men methinks must have stronger natures. […]
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