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And, by himself in a small boat embark'd, Wearing his way to the black wheeling eddy In centre of the lake, which swallow'd him?

My flesh creeps at the thought?

Dost thou believe it?

Ay; or what think ye of the Count Avergo, Who, after years of such successful crimes, Took leave of all his friends, at warning given By sound of midnight trumpet at his gate; Round which, 't is said, a band of plumed spectres, Whose whiten'd bony jaws and eyeless sockets Did from their open'd beavers to the moon Stare horribly, stood ready to receive him?

And went he with them?

Ay, certes, did he! for above the ground With mortal men he never more was seen. (To .) But enter, man, and have a stoup of wine; Thou seemest faint and spent.

Ay, give him wine, for see how pale he is.