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.

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.

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.

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