Whenever I feel really depressed about the stinkingness of politics, I take a dive into Fleet Street and see what stinkingness really is.

And a too-sweet, tobaccoish residue lingered in Julian from his unchecked fantasies, and he laughed at himself (so like his father wrapping a fur stole around Billie Holiday’s shoulders), and he laughed at Cait O’Dwyer’s sorcery, and he wondered if, in her real life, she required a steady diet of recent heartbreak in order to manufacture fresh emotion for her consumers.

Peda[nt]. Thou diſputes like an Infant: goe vvhip thy Gigg. / Pag[e]. Lende me your Horne to make one, and I vvill vvhip about your Infamie vnũ cita a gigge of a Cuckolds horne. Pedant [i.e., Holofernes]. You argue like an infant: go whip your gig. / Page. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy, [vnũ cita is unclear; perhaps an error for vidcit = videlicet, namely], a gig of a cuckold's horn.

[…]Slob or Slop for a dirty child, Beans for a child who breaks wind, Jerk-off for a child who masturbates.