He was a spit-fire! The typical little boy just on the verge of spilling out the dozens of words he'd accumulated, a cascade of sounds as he chattered from dawn to dusk.
The player was sent off for two bookable offences.
If some gay picture, vilely daubed, were seen With grass of azure, and a sky of green, Th’impatient laughter we’d suppress in vain, And deem the painter jesting, or insane.
To what end are such paraenetical discourses? You may as soon remove Mount Caucasus as alter some men's affections.
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