‘Dere ain't no use for me dis side, Mr. Chames,’ he said. ‘New York's de spot. Youse don't want none of me, now you're married.’
Quick! The train's pulling in.
At Musick, Melancholy lifts her Head; Dull Morpheus rowzes from his Bed;
For he is groſſe and like the maſſie earth, That mooues not vpwards, nor by princely deeds Doth meane to ſoare aboue the highest ſort.
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