About book The Major Works (Penguin Classics) (1977)
That it bee, in sublime portione, the richly dressed thoughts of a bearded man of wholesome measure, cantering in idyll but sturdey pace across pages yellowed with the ancient and hallowed wisdom of an age well-marked by the grimm shadows of war and its terrible covenants. A beacone to travellers wearey and benighted by spartan counters and tabletops checkered spic-and-span, the flyckering recrudescence of cherubes and seraphim endeavoring with roseate smiles and beguiling inferences to induce thee to part with thy browe-broughtt cash; a nurturing broth from beastly pastures and sun blessed gardenes wherein the divine goodness dost abide as a fortifying, unguent naturall spirit, a munificent honeyed meade of prodigyous, meandering suppositiones that dost draw all in close to the warmly-kept hearth from where-forth it was served and keeps at baye various lycanthropes, succubi and other foull shaydes seeking sustenance from oure most earthly ichor. Sire Browne, thou supple provider of provender for straw-scraeped soulls and e'en pryck-hooded debauches, unshrived pilgrims suffering from the charcoalled residue orphaned upon the tongue by hoary tyubes of tobacco and enphizzing downpoures of inky cola bedaubed, in cloak and kiss, with aromatic cherries, thou shire-shunst sage whose trecks of substance through the shadowes of dyce-dealing death and the ossified, wrattling priories of dust-draped cobwebs can find aught but the mummified remains of star-flung youthfull ambition drawn fearfully back to such earthen entombment as prevails when the force of gravity bears all the irone weight of time's crushing, levelling, pullverizing fiste.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------And now the whole thing, it be finished. Completed. Put to pasture. Sir Thomas Fucking Browne—what a man! What a spirit! What a probing, phlegmatic, pearlescent personality. I can't help but suspect that, were I, somehow, someway, to manage the time-tossed trick of arriving home to find him sitting, still and sagely and slightly bemused upon my badly-in-need-of-a-steam-wash couch, I might collapse, gratefully and completely, upon said settee and spill forth to the becalming figure the entirety of my pathetic tale of self-woe, to which, upon my imploring cessation, he would dip that refined, sagacious head, reflect at leisure, reach forth a hearth-warm arm and clasp my shoulder in a firm, reassuring manner, smile like an old friend who understands an eternity in but a moment of measure, rise up to a standing position as an oak spreading forth from the acorn in the passing of seconds rather than decades; and then, hefting the sturdy limb that served him as perambulating prop and boon companion, swing it like the Yankee Clipper to crack me, sharply, strongly, assuredly, across the the span of my shins.
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