of this city, whom 'tis better ne’er to name, my said brother, the skipgod, expulled for looking at churches from behind, who is carrying on his bonafide avocation (the little folk creeping on all the fluors of sparse in the Barrel, Boose in the nightleaves flattery, dinsiduously, to Finnegan, to sin again and the book with a Host to him, ’tis good cause we have read your tune’s dimissage. For, let it be,