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 setting off, by the bye, was not likely to cure my uncle Toby's suspicions.—"Labour, sorrow, grief, sickness, want, and woe, are the sauces of life."—Much good may do them—said my uncle Toby to himself.

"My son is dead!—so much the better;—'tis a shame in such a tempest to have but one anchor."

"But he is gone for ever from us!—be it so. He is got from under the hands of his barber before he was bald.—he is but risen from a feast before he was surfeited—from a banquet before he had got drunken."

"The Thracians wept when a child was born"—(and we were very near it, quoth my uncle Toby)—"and feasted and made merry when a man went out of the world; and with reason.