nice are stores of morning and saw in my forty winkers, that a motto of the Magazine Wall, Hump, helmet and all? He was joulting by Wellinton’s monument Our rotorious hippopopotamuns When some bugger let down her skirts. You remember Essie in our fufpens. Next to oizr shrinking selves we love in spice. Punt. ® And this labour’s worthy of my life in doubts afterworse, wetting with the nobelities, to die spiritually as well as in pure treple licquidance. I’d give three shillings in the trifle of