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Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
I should sin To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart That doth not wish you joy!
What a thrice-double ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god And worship this dull fool!
As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
