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The canopy embroidered with pearl and gold he lies under has no virtue against a violent fit of the colic: "Nee calidae citius decedunt corpore febres Textilibus si in picturis, ostroque rubenti Jactaris, quam si plebeia in veste cubandum est."
Before I know where we are, so to speak, we have left London, and are at Lisbon. On the voyage Captain G. WILLIAMS suggests these lines, to which I append my own translation. Here is the Captain's reminiscence, and my translation when he isn't looking: "Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes Angulus ridet, ubi non Hymetto Melle decedunt, viridique certat Bacca Venafro.
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