My unsoil’d name, the austereness of my life, / My vouch against you, and my place i’ the state, / Will so your accusation overweigh, / That you shall stifle in your own report, / And smell of calumny.

Venters began to count them—one—two—three—four—on up to sixteen.

The golfer underhit the ball and failed to reach the green.

In order to grant the rich these pleasures, the social contract is reconfigured. […] The public realm is privatised, the regulations restraining the ultra-wealthy and the companies they control are abandoned, and Edwardian levels of inequality are almost fetishised.