my Mothers bloud / Runs on the dexter checke, and this ſiniſter / Bounds in my fathers:
Their guan beaks, coupled dovelings, the poorotten, leafing their livers, nieces of the cloud . . . Life! Life! This is life!
In sharpest perils faithful proved, Let his soul love thee to the end.
They said he survived the fall? What a load of crap!
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