And then for the nex age. Respected sir, this is another diddlusion; a grose misteak on your part, or my name is not Y—sh. These plays immortial? Ah, parry-sample, as the French say, this is too strong—the small beer of the Sea Capting, or of any suxessor of the Sea Capting, to keep sweet for sentries and sentries! Barnet, Barnet! do you know the natur of bear? Six weeks is not past, and here your last casque is sour—the public won’t even now drink it; and I lay a wager that, betwigst this day (the thuttieth November) and the end of the year, the barl will be off the stox altogether, never, never to return.
I’ve notted down a few frazes here and there, which you which you will do well to igsamin:
Norman.
The eternal Flora
Woos to her odorous haunts the western wind:
While circling round and upwards from the boughs,
Golden with fruits that lure the joyous birds,
Melody, like a happy soul released,
Hangs in the air, and from invisible plumes
Shakes sweetness down!”