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How he can set his mind aloft, and looke at The bussings and the busines of the spightfull, And crosse when ere he please all their close weavings. Farwell, my last farwell. Bar. A long farwell, Sir. Leid. Our bodies are the earthes, that's their dyvorsse: But our immortall names shall twyn togeather. Bar. Thus tread we backward to our graves; but faint not. Leid.
I'll bet a guinea that however clever a fellow you may be you never sang anything in praise of your landlord's housekeeping equal to what Dafydd Nanmor sang in praise of that of Ryce of Twyn four hundred years ago: 'For Ryce if hundred thousands plough'd The lands around his fair abode; Did vines of thousand vineyards bleed, Still corn and wine great Ryce would need; If all the earth had bread's sweet savour, And water all had cyder's flavour, Three roaring feasts in Ryce's hall Would swallow earth and ocean all.
"You haven't been to Caermaen, have you?" "No. I got it in the Roman fort by the common." "Oh, the twyn. You must have been trespassing then. Do you know what it is?" "No. I thought it looked different from the common nettles." "Yes; it's a Roman nettle arctic pilulifera. It's a rare plant. Burrows says it's to be found at Caermaen, but I was never able to come across it.
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