What, fifty of my followers at a clap!
Yet when a tale comes i' my head, / Or laſſes gie my heart a ſcreed, / As whiles they're like to be my dead, / (O ſad diſeaſe!) / I kittle up my ruſtic reed; / It gies me ease.
Their [the clergy's] chief business, during a quarter of a century, had been to teach the people to cringe and the prince to domineer.
Well, the last night we were in Paris I'd been out shooting at Ben Gallagher's in the Sologne the day before and he had a fermée, you know, they put up a low fence while they're out feeding, and shot rabbits in the morning and in the afternoon we had several drives and shot pheasants and I shot a chevreuil.
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