Nor any weaver, which his work doth boast In diaper, in damask, or in lyne, Might in their diverse cunning ever dare With this so curious net-work to compare.

Who comes in foreign trashery Of tinkling chain and spur, A walking haberdashery Of feathers, lace, and fur.

The ancient laws of the drama were founded upon the presumed segnity of the human mind; upon a supposition, that the fancy is a calculator of probabilities.

My dad […] beat us until we couldn't sit down. […] What about your mother? […] She's alive. […] My aunt visits her once a year, but I don't ask about my mother. She died to me the day she chose my father over protecting us. Luke's voice hitched with emotion.