Your apple dumpling face, your cherry scented hair...
There are few things worse then waking up on a beautiful autumnal day and realize that the company you keep consists of one slightly soused maniac, and one pedant whose head is lodges so firmly up his own arse that he would need a candle and sextant to find his way out.
Let me expound upon one case in point. I have recently returned to Jack’s house after escaping the less than affectionate ministrations of my wife. I secured my position not through an act of Christian charity on Jack’s part, but through the more direct route of blackmail. In my possession I currently hold several letters of “dubious” character, in which Jack expresses thoughts best left unwritten. One missive begins “My rosy buttocked Clara,” and then continues in a manner so laughably odious that I am inclined to think that Jack was beyond his normal state of inebriation and had instead journeyed into lands uncharted in his drunken pursuit of romantic prose. Another first prize choice is where he compares young Clara’s undergarments to the fog upon the Thames, both thick and unassailable. I feel naught but shame for young Clara, for the first comparison I would make about my own person would not reference a foul, bilious body of water.
To come back to my original point, one would think that with such ammunition in my possession that Jack’s manner would be more conciliatory. Further, one would think he would forgive my episodes of high spirits where I make lewd gestures at his maids and threaten to beat George about the head with a cudgel. Such is not the case, as he has repeatedly made good on his threats to “set the dogs loose’ upon me. I fear that the London Gazette will have a new headline this week, one in the phrase “forsooth, my love doth froth in my loins like a fizzy cider,” will become publick currency.