The other poets were either hornrimmed intellectual hepcats with wild black hair like Alvah Goldbook, or delicate pale handsome poets like Ike O'Shay (in a suit), or out-of-this-world genteel-looking Renaissance Italians like Francis DaPavia (who looks like a young priest), or bow-tied wild-haired old anarchist fuds like Rheinhold Cacoethes, or big fat bespectacled quiet booboos like Warren Coughlin.

This is nae change-hoose, John Munro, And ye needna come nae mair: Ye crookit yer mou', and lichtlied me, Last Wednesday, at the fair."

She danced flowingly across the stage, as though gravity and friction didn't apply to her.

… He gaue me a rope of the ſame Pearle, but they were blacke, and naught, yet many of them were very great, and a fewe amongſt a number very orient and round, …