If the wolf was to be feared, the learned gentleman might rest assured it would be the wolf in sheep's clothing, the masked pretender to patriotism. It was not from the fang of the lion, but from the tooth of the serpent, that reptile that insidiously steals upon the vitals of the constitution and gnaws it to the heart ere the mischief is suspected, that destruction was to be feared.

[…] C was a Cracksman, that forked all the plate; / D was a Dubsman, who kept the jug-gate. […]

A gang of fags was mobbing about by the notice-boards. They fell silent as he approached. He patted one of them on the head. ‘Pretty children,’ he sighed, digging into his waistcoat pocket and pulling out a handful of change. ‘Tonight you shall eat.’ Scattering the coins at their feet, he moved on.

It wer′n′t no guyver neither; fer I knoo / That any other bloke ′ad Buckley′s ′oo / Tried fer to pick ′er up.