It never was our guise to slight the poor, or aught humane despise.

There will be killing till the score is paid.

down from his brow she ran his curls like thick hyacinth clusters full of blooms

And they die an equal death — the idler and the man of mighty deeds.

Ah, beer, my one weakness. My Achille's heel, if you will.

The other day, I was so desperate for a beer, I snuck into the football stadium and ate the dirt under the bleachers.

It is tedious to tell again tales already plainly told.