And hir awook, and thus to hir he cried, Woman, what is that, that in thin hand I see? What hast thou doon, woman, for him that diede, What wickid spirit hath travaylid the? And as sone as that adawed was she, The knyfe fel oute of hir hand in the bedde, And she bihilde the cloothis al forbledde, And the childe dead.

… Ile giue you a pottle of burn'd ſacke, to giue me recourſe to him, and tell him my name is Broome: onely for a ieſt.

He unplugged my umbilical cord to take a leisurely swig, smirking, watching me turn blue before giving it back. My cardiologist told me that was impossible, but I'm still convinced. That's very on-brand for [my twin] Jamie.

There exists a vast literature advancing this criticism of Herzl's activities and of the Herzlians.