Round about the couldron go:
In the poisones entrails throw.
Toad,that under cold stone
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This was the worst possible reading of Winter that I have ever encountered - flat and totally without expression - declaiming Tuesday for the owl’s hoot displayed astonishing ignorance of the vernacular.
The mind boggles, with regard to the assorted animal part specific ingredients, and the where how and origin of these purchases; am I wrong or could such verse once have has Shakespeare burnt as a witch in a few period American towns; but what a write.
The best of the best.Superb.