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I love these sweet, fiery pangs, but I will not court them. The bulk of the time I spent in repeating as much French poetry as I could remember to the horses, who seemed to enjoy it hugely. And now it went "O ma vieille Font-georges Ou volent les rouges-gorges:" and again, to a more trampling measure
Leurs becs sont dores, et les grains qu'ils mangent sont dores aussi, et leurs pieds sont teints de pourpre. La pluie vient quand ils crient, et quand ils se pavanent la lune se montre au ciel. Ils vont deux a deux entre les cypres et les myrtes noirs et chacun a son esclave pour le soigner. Quelquefois ils volent a travers les arbres, et quelquefois ils couchent sur le gazon et autour de l'etang.
After their dispersal the authorities appear to have paid but little attention to their commissariat and they were left to live by pillage. Many months later I ventured to ask an officer of the regulars on what principle they were supposed to be paid. "Payés?" responded the gentleman whom I questioned, "ils ne sont pas payés, ils volent."
"Why, daughter, he has a crest, an escutcheon of azure, sable, and sanguine, a lion rampant, a unicorn passant, and an eagle volent." "What would a crest do for me?" The question puzzled Mrs. Newville. "I really do not know, daughter, just what it would do, but it would be painted on your coach; it would be embroidered on the banners hanging in Lord Upperton's baronial hall. Just think of it!
So it is that at what then befell me, an ambitious man would have hanged himself, and a covetous man would have done the same. I have no manner of care of getting; "Si mihi, quod nunc est, etiam minus; et mihi vivam Quod superest aevi, si quid superesse volent dii:"
Certainly there is nothing more easy than to do it. Yea, the like may be said of Weymouth, Purbeck, Poole, and of all landing-places on the south-west. For there is no man ignorant, that ships without putting themselves out of breath, will easily outrun the souldiers that coast them. 'LES ARMEES NE VOLENT POINT EN POSTE; 'Armies neither flye, nor run post, saith a marshal of France.
I love these sweet, fiery pangs, but I will not court them. The bulk of the time I spent in repeating as much French poetry as I could remember to the horses, who seemed to enjoy it hugely. And now it went "O ma vieille Font-georges Où volent les rouges-gorges": and again, to a more trampling measure:
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