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       As the lion in our teargarten remembers the nenuphars of his 
Nile (shall Ariuz forget Arioun or Boghas the baregams of the
Marmarazalles from Marmeniere?) it may be, tots wearsense full
a naggin in twentyg have sigilposted what in our brievingbust,
the besieged bedreamt him stil and solely of those lililiths un-
deveiled which had undone him, gone for age, and knew not
the watchful treachers at his wake, and theirs to stay. Fooi, fooi,
chamermissies! Zeepyzoepy, larcenlads! Zijnzijn Zijnzijn! It may
be, we moest ons hasten selves te declareer it, that he reglimmed?
presaw? the fields of heat and yields of wheat where corngold
Ysit? shamed and shone. It may be, we habben to upseek a bitty
door our good township's courants want we knew't, that with
his deepseeing insight (had not wishing oftebeen but good time
wasted), within his patriarchal shamanah, broadsteyne 'bove citie
(Twillby! Twillby!) he conscious of enemies, a kingbilly white-
horsed in a Finglas mill, prayed, as he sat on anxious seat, (kunt
ye neat gift mey toe bout a peer saft eyballds!) during that three
and a hellof hours' agony of silence, ex profundis malorum, and
bred with unfeigned charity that his wordwounder (an engles to
the teeth who, nomened Nash of Girahash, would go anyold where
in the weeping world on his mottled belly (the rab, the kreepons-
kneed!) for milk, music or married missusses) might, mercy to
providential benevolence's who hates prudencies' astuteness, un-
fold into the first of a distinguished dynasty of his posteriors,