I could ride around some and listen to country music songs about drinking and cheating and losing love and finding it, since it looked like I wasn't going to be pumping any red-hot baby batter into my own favorite womb any time soon.

And in faith Sir unlesse your hospitalitie doe releeve us, wee are like to wander with a sorrowfull hey ho, among the owlets, & Hobgoblins of the Forrest […]

I Find, tho’ I have leſs experience than you, the truth of what you told me ſome time ago, that increaſe of years makes men more talkative but leſs writative: to that degree, that I now write no letters but of plain buſineſs, or plain how-d’ye’s, to thoſe few I am forced to correſpond with, either out of neceſſity, or love: And I grow Laconic even beyond Laconiciſme; for ſometimes I return only Yes, or No, to queſtionary or petitionary Epiſtles of half a yard long.

He falls, and lashing up his heels, his rider throws.