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Updated: June 27, 2025
He's driven to the last degree of Poverty Had you but seen his Lodgings, Madam! L. Ful. What were they? Bred. 'Tis a pretty convenient Tub, Madam.
Bred. Mr. Crap, being busy with a borrowing Lord, sent me to Mr. Wasteall, whose Lodging is in a nasty Place called Alsatia, at a Black-Smith's. L. Ful. But what's all this to Gayman? Bred. Madam, this Wasteall was Mr. Gayman. L. Ful. Gayman! Saw'st thou Gayman? Bred. Madam, Mr. Gayman, yesterday. L. Ful. When came he to Town? Bred. Madam, he has not been out of it. L. Ful.
Waal, joy go with ye, he, he, he! Come off, Tige, ye Bose, hyar! Cur'ous I can't 'larn them dogs no manners." A dreary morrow ensued on the splendid night. The world was ful of mists; the clouds were resolved into drizzling rain; every perspective of expectation was restricted by the limited purlieus of the present.
In another half-hour they had driven the Turks from the conical top of Tel el Ful, that sugar-loaf hill which dominates the Nablus road, and which before the end of the year was to be the scene of an epic struggle between Londoner and Turk.
They attacked the 53rd Division at points east of Jerusalem, and the 60th to the north, their principal objective being Tel el Ful, a conspicuous hill 3 miles east of Neby Samwil, from which Jerusalem and the intervening ground could be overlooked. On the morning of the 28th, a lull occurred in the fighting, followed by an attack of unexpected strength against the whole front.
A heate full of coldnesse, a sweet full of bitternesse, a paine ful of pleasantnesse; which maketh thoughts have eyes, and harts eares; bred by desire, nursed by delight, weaned by jelousie, kild by dissembling, buried by ingratitude; and this is love! fayre Lady, wil you any? Nym. If it be nothing else, it is but a foolish thing. Cup. Try, and you shall find it a prettie thing. Nym.
Smith, a neighbor, watch- ful and friendly, suggested that she write away from home, and employ some one to carry it to the office who would elude Mrs. B., who, they very well knew, had intercepted Jenny's letter, and influenced Lewis to leave her behind.
What, because I cannot simper, look demure, and justify my Honour, when none questions it? Cry fie, and out upon the naughty Women, Because they please themselves and so wou'd I. Sir Cau. How, wou'd, what cuckold me? L. Ful. Yes, if it pleas'd me better than Vertue, Sir. But I'll not change my Freedom and my Humour, To purchase the dull Fame of being honest. Sir Cau. Ay, but the World, the World
Then, Madam, what Expences his Despair have run him on As Drinking and Gaming, to divert the Thought of your marrying my old Master. L. Ful. And put in Wenching too. Bred. No, assure your self, Madam L. Ful. Bred. Madam, I'll die to serve you. Pert. Nor will I be behind in my Duty. L. Ful. Oh, how fatal are forc'd Marriages! How many Ruins one such Match pulls on!
This noble work, from the hand of Paul Dubois, one of the most interesting of that new generation of sculp- tors who have revived in France an art of which our overdressed century had begun to despair, has every merit but the absence of a certain prime feeling. It is the echo of an earlier tune, an echo with a beauti- ful cadence.
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