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I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run'st more hobling then is meet; In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find In this array, mong'st Vulgars mayst thou roam In Critick's hands, beware thou dost not come; And take thy way where yet thou art not known, If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none; And for thy Mother, she alas is poor.
Iffen de old house is still thar I 'spec you kin fin' mud cakes up under de house whut we made out'n eggs we stole frum de hen nests. Den we milked jes anybody's cows we could ketch, an' churned it. We's all time in ter some mischief. "Thar was plenty dancin' 'mong'st darkies on Marse George's place an' on ones nearby.
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