What, fifty of my followers at a clap!
Well, the last night we were in Paris I'd been out shooting at Ben Gallagher's in the Sologne the day before and he had a fermée, you know, they put up a low fence while they're out feeding, and shot rabbits in the morning and in the afternoon we had several drives and shot pheasants and I shot a chevreuil.
Their [the clergy's] chief business, during a quarter of a century, had been to teach the people to cringe and the prince to domineer.
Yet when a tale comes i' my head, / Or laſſes gie my heart a ſcreed, / As whiles they're like to be my dead, / (O ſad diſeaſe!) / I kittle up my ruſtic reed; / It gies me ease.
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