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Franville. O Lamure, the happiness my dogs had When I kept house at home! They had a storehouse, A storehouse of most blessed bones and crusts, Happy crusts. Oh, how sharp hunger pinches me! Franville. How now, what news? Morillat. Hast any meat yet? Franville.
I flung it over-bord, slave that I was. Lamure. Ich komme auf die ekelhaften Gegenst
I can find nothing, gentlemen, Here 's nothing can be meat, without a miracle Oh that I had my boxes and my lints now, My stupes, my tents, and those sweet helps of nature, What dainty dishes could I make of 'em. Morillat. Hast ne'er an old suppository? Surgeon. Oh would I had, sir. Lamure. Or but the paper where such a cordial Potion, or pills hath been entomb'd? Franville.
Alles Vorrates an Lebensmitteln sonach auf einmal beraubet, sehen jene Nichtswürdige gar bald den schmählichsten Tod vor Augen, und einer drückt gegen den andern seinen Hunger und seine Verzweiflung folgendergestalt aus: Lamure. Oh, what a tempest have I in my stomach! How my empty guts cry out! My wounds ake, Would they would bleed again, that I might get Something to quench my thirst.