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If it were what it was in its primitive shape, and what it ought to have remained, a fair honest fishing town, and no more, it were something with a few straggling fishermen's huts scattered about, artless as its cliffs, and with their materials filched from them, it were something. I could abide to dwell with Meschek; to assort with fisher-swains, and smugglers.
It was such a scene that Fletcher pictured to himself, when he extolled the halcyon lot of the fisherman: Ah! would thou knewest how much it better were To bide among the simple fisher-swains: No shrieking owl, no night-crow lodgeth here, Nor is our simple pleasure mixed with pains.
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