Probably the worst part of premodern literature is coming across lines like “Of course, everyone knows the tale of Borble, that hero of ancient days, so I shall not weary the reader by repeating it here*”
* Editor’s note: no accounts of Borble have survived
Every second that I’m not in bed I’m thinking about how badly I wanna be horizontal in bed and whenever I’m horizontal in bed I think yes I love being horizontal in my bed.
"Oh my god did you see the latest poll? Pennsylvania is within the marg-"
You bolt awake. The year is 1656. You summon a servant, sure of what must be done. You are Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. And William Penn must die.