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'There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin, wrought with horse and hound; Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut down, a pasty costly made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied; last, with these A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime which I knew; and so we sat and ate. TENNYSON.
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