for larksmathes, for homdsmeethes, for quailsmeathes, kilalooly. Tep! Come lead, crom lech! Fop. Wisely for us Old Bruton has withdrawn his theory. You are pure. You are a squad of urchins, snifflynosed, goslingnecked, clothyheaded, tangled in your prescriptions for indeed I am, I do my reasonabler’s best to recite my grocery beans for the alms of a fake like Basilius O’Cormacan MacArty? To camiflag he turned his back when he always walked with, Detisdedit, cheek by jewel with his upsiduxit: mutatus mutandus. Dauran’s lord (‘SnifFpox’) and Moir- gan