Prate

Thou ſowre and firme-ſet Earth / Heare not my ſteps, which they may walke, for feare / Thy very ſtones prate of my where-about, / And take the preſent horror from the time, / Which now ſutes with it.

What nonsense would the fool, thy master, prate, / When thou, his knave, canst talk at such a rate!

Urania speaks with darken’d brow: ⁠‘Thou pratest here where thou art least; ⁠This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou: […]’

They are not so chic, these kids. They don’t haunt press receptions or opening nights; they don’t pose as street punks in the style of Bruce Springsteen, or prate of rock & Rimbaud.

Puffed up with fake jocularity, Bill epitomizes the smiley, buck-passing, back-stabbing, passive-aggressive office dictator who fears and despises his underlings while prating nauseatingly about everybody being one big happy family.