Bring well known hands, keep forraine beaſts from you, / If Pompeys far-fam’d name deſerve to be / The crime of Cæſar, feares not Ptolomey / The ruine of that name: or when the sky / Thunders, dar’ſt thou, effœminate Ptolomey, / Inſert thy prophane hands? to terrify / Thee, King, a Romans name enough ſhould be, / Without that worth that did the world controll:[…]When Cnejus heard theſe words, his inward woe / In paſſionate teares, and ſighs he could not ſhow; / But thus inflam’d with pious rage gan ſpeake, / Lanch forth the fleet, ſailers, with ſpeed, and breake / Through the croſſe winds a paſſage with the oare, / Brave Captaines follow me, never before / Knew civill war more worthy ends then theſe, / T’interre unbury’d Manes, and appeaſe / Pompey with ſlaughter of th’effœminate boy.
There was a part of a bottle of liquor on the table—the furniture of the hall was disarranged—a pair of slippers, two small combs, and a backcomb were lying near an easy chair.
Petulant and pouty, Stephanie herself says things like, ‘Oh, poo.’
Those days and nights, as I began to enter the shadowy timetable of The Darter's life, I found myself within a confabulist pattern that drew together barge smugglers, verterinarians, forgers, and dog tracks in the Home Countries.
