Where may that treachour then (said he) be found, / Or by what meanes may I his footing tract?

Much soul-searching is going on at the west London club who, just seven weeks ago, were five points clear at the top of the table and playing with the verve with which they won the title last season.

they have many advantages of us; the one is, by their fashioned ships called boyers, hoybarks, hoys, and others […]

Whose woods these are I think I know, They are my Uncle Sam's, and so This simple country farmer blows His stack, and on his tippy toes Takes all the wood that he can cut Before the ranger doubles back And pistolwhips me forty whacks.