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Dear brother!

High soaring eagle among pastry-cooks! [He sniffs.] Marry! it smells good here in your eyry!

'Tis at Phœbus' own rays that thy roasts torn!

Apollo among master-cooks—

Ah! how quick a man feels at his ease with them!…

We were stayed by the mob; they are crowded all round the Porte de Nesle!…

Eight bleeding brigand carcasses strew the pavements there—all slit open with sword-gashes!

Eight?… hold, methought seven.

Know you who might be the hero of the fray?