[155]
which poets sing of in better days—I will delude my fancy, and believe it is so.
'Twas in the road betwixt Nismes and Lunel, where there is the best Muscatto wine in all France, and which by the bye belongs to the honest canons of Montpellier—and foul befall the man who has drank it at their table, who grudges them a drop of it.
—The sun was set—they had done their work; the nymphs had tied up their hair afresh—and the swains were preparing for a carousal—My mule made a dead point—'Tis the fife and tabourin, said I—I'm frighten'd to death, quoth he—They are running at the ring of pleasure, said I, giving him a prick—By saint Boogar, and all the saints at the backside of the door of pur-gatory,
