My voice is gone, and I've talked enough – your stylus hand must hurt like a swordsman's after a long fight, lad. And you, lady – I must have run you out of blushes by now. And you, honey – you've yawned more than a child at lessons. Although you were kind enough to weep for your grandmother.
Aye, there's more. Come again after the feast of Demeter, and I'll tell you of how I next met Briseis – how I lost the farm, and won it back – how the men of Plataea stood against the Medes at Marathon.
Now there's a story.