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Why man, Poison's a princely dish. Morillat. Hast thou no bisket? No crumbs left in thy pocket? Here is my doublet, Give me but three small crumbs. Franville. Not for three kingdoms, If I were master of 'em. Oh, Lamure, But one poor joint of mutton, we ha' scorn'd, man. Lamure. Thou speak'st of paradise; Or but the snuffs of those healths, We have lewdly at midnight flang away. Morillat.