Chapter 250 of 266 · 58 words · ~1 min read

XVI.

Our saints had practised for some thirty years; Their talk, beginning with a single stem, Spread like a banyan, sending down live piers, Colonies of digression, and, in them, Germs of yet new migrations; once by the ears, They could convey damnation in a hem, And blow the pitch of premise-priming off Long syllogistic batteries, with a cough.