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Updated: June 7, 2025
Above all, govern your will and affections by the will and word of your Creator; in me beholding the end of this world with all her vanities." And thus this gentle and heroic spirit took its flight. Parma, after thoroughly victualling Zutphen, turned his attention to the German levies which Leicester was expecting under the care of Count Meurs.
In 1601 the fortresses of Rheinberg and Meurs on the Rhine were captured, and an attack made upon Hertogenbosch. In 1602 the important town of Grave on the Meuse was taken and a raid made into Brabant and Luxemburg.
I found, the other day, that some of my literary friends had never heard of him, though I suppose few educated Frenchmen do not know the lines which he wrote, a week before his death, upon a mean bed in the great hospital of Paris. "Au banquet de la vie, infortune convive, J'apparus un jour, et je meurs; Je meurs, et sur ma tombe, ou lentement j'arrive, Nul ne viendra verser des pleurs."
As I gazed, it seemed but an hour ago since I had heard those still lips conjugating the verb mourir for the behoof of poor ignorant me, and the words came back to me, and I could not help repeating them to myself as I looked: Je meurs, tu meurs, etc. I bent over and kissed the marble-cold forehead and said farewell in my heart, and went downstairs without a word.
Hakewel, "the strangest that I have met with of this kind, is the history of Eve Fliegen, out of Dutch translated into English, and printed at London, anno 1611, who, being born at Meurs, is said to have taken no kind of sustenance for the space of fourteen years together; that is, from the year of her age, twenty-two to thirty-six, and from the year of our Lord 1597 to 1611; and this we have confirmed by the testimony of the magistrates of the town of Meurs, as also by the minister who made trial of her in his house thirteen days together by all the means he could devise, but could detect no imposture."
I have been wounded I walk very lame. But I still hope to see Andrew Smallie perhaps in a country where I can hold him to his threat; if it is only for the remembrance of five minutes that I had with Lisa when I went back to Gottingen that cold winter morning. "Si je vis, c'est bien; si je meurs, c'est bien." "Ai-i-ieah," the people cried, as Juan Quereno passed the cry of the muleteers, in fact.
The faint smile that played for a second on his lips and lighted his countenance would have told me that he understood, even had I not caught his words, faint as a sigh "Merci, monsieur." He nestled his head into the crook of my arm. "Water for the love of God!" he gasped, to add in a groan, "Je me meurs, monsieur."
On the 25th of May, 1585, at an hour after midnight, he had a secret interview with Count Meurs, stadholder for the States of Gelderland, and agreed to transfer his mercenary allegiance to the republic. He made good terms. He was to be lieutenant-governor of Gelderland, and he was to have rank as marshal of the camp in the States' army, with a salary of twelve hundred and fifty guilders a month.
On the 19th, Rheinberg, the key to that portion of the river, surrendered. On the 31st the stadholder opened his batteries upon the city of Meurs, which capitulated on the 2nd of September; the commandant, Andrew Miranda, stipulating that he should carry off an old fifty- pounder, the only piece of cannon in the place.
Suddenly the amorous girl released one of her divine breasts from its bonds of confinement and pushed it forward for him to kiss. "Baisez mon têton, mon cher Alphonse, je meurs pour vous!" And she herself slipped the rosy nipple in his mouth. While he was thus engaged she kissed his hair, his ears and forehead. "O foutez-moi foutez-moi mon cher, Mon con est en feu!"
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