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 But, as I have urrendered at dicretion, I am in hopes that my incere confeion will omewhat mitigate your anger. It were a mall matter, ir, to you to make an honet man of me. Were you but to dimis me with a viaticum out of your brewer’s copper;—or pluck me a core of loes out of your garden-hedge, as you did for the hungry traveller, who, though he bit away one of his teeth at your fruit, found all the loes metamorphoed into little balls of gold;—or if you would make me a preent of one of the eight golden kittles you have left, ince you gave the ninth to the tudent from Prague for beating you at bowls;—or only your milk-pan, which changes curds into gold;—or, if I deerve punihment, beat me, as you did the hoe-maker, with a golden rod, and then give it me as a memorial of the adventure, according to the tory the lads of the lat tell of you, as they it hammering oles—my fortune were made at once.