“No, no! No, no! No, no!”
Pat was delighted at the joke, and, rubbing his hands gleefully, said,—
“Bedad, whin I drive one of the raal clargy here won’t I have the sport out of him?”
Not Rousseau
The Russian poet Puschkin was plagued day after day by a certain Ivan Iakowlewitsch (John, James’s son) to give him his autograph. Puschkin always excused himself, but the petitioner was one of the men who never take a hint. The poet at last consented, in no good humor; he seized the book out of the man’s hand, and scribbled off the following lines:
Vous êtes Jean,
Vous êtes Jacques,
Vous êtes roux,
Vous êtes sot,
Mais vous n’êtes pas, mon cher,