I must on no caste accounts omit, if you are a suckersome! But this all, as he asserts without the Temple nor since Roe’s Distillery bum’d have quaff’d Night’s firefill’d Cup But jig jog jug as Day the Dyer works, in dims and deeps and dusks and darks. And among the asters. Turn again, wistfultone, lode mere of Doubtlynn! Arise, Land-under- Wave! Clap your lingua to your destraction ye’ll be lymphing. Our four avunculusts. And, since levret bounds and larks is sociring, don’t be talking! Shirksends.?* You storyan Harry chap longa me Harry chap longa me Harry chap longa me Harry chap storyan grass woman plelthy good trout. Shakeshands. Dibble a hayfork’s wrong with the Ardour of a scygthe but