The baby was crammed against one of her bosoms. He was meant to be sucking milk out of it. The other bosom was hanging down, with a funny long red blob on the end.

The painefull warrier famoſed for worth, After a thouſand victories once foild, Is from the booke of honour raſed quite, And all the reſt forgot for which he toild:[…]

There is reason, it is said, in the roasting of eggs, and there is philosophy even in furniture—a philosophy nevertheless which seems to be more imperfectly understood by Americans than by any civilized nation upon the face of the earth.

'I your Enemy, Sir!' ſays he, with much Amazement, and ſome Sternneſs in his Look. 'Nay, be not angry,' ſaid Benjamin, 'for I promiſe you I am not. You are perfectly innocent of having intended me any Wrong; for you was then an Infant; but I ſhall, I believe, unriddle all this the Moment I mention my Name. Did you never hear, Sir, of one Partridge, who had the honour of being reputed your Father, and the Misfortune of being ruined by that Honour?'