'Join us, Mr.
Temple; you are a man of wit, and may possibly find this specimen worthy of you.

This wine has a history.

You are drinking wine with blood in it.
Well, I was saying, the darling of my heart has been torn from me; I am in a foreign land; foreign, that is, by birth, and on the whole foreign.
Yes!--I am the cynosure of eyes; I am in a singular posture, a singular situation; I hear a cry in the tongue of my native land, and what I presume is my boy's name: I look, I behold him, I follow a parent's impulse.

On my soul! none but a fish-father could have stood against it.
Well, for this my reward is--and I should have stepped from a cathedral spire just the same, if I had been mounted on it--that I, I,--and the woman knows all my secret--I have to submit to the foul tirade of a vixen.
She drew language, I protest, from the slums.

And I entreat you, Mr.
Temple, with your "margravine of wines"-- which was very neatly said, to be sure--note you this curious point for the confusion of Radicals in your after life; her Highness's pleasure was to lend her tongue to the language--or something like it--of a besotted fish-wife; so! very well, and just as it is the case with that particular old Hock you youngsters would disapprove of, and we cunning oldsters know to contain more virtues in maturity than a nunnery of May-blooming virgins, just so the very faults of a royal lady-royal by birth and in temper a termagant--impart a perfume! a flavour! You must age; you must live in Courts, you must sound the human bosom, rightly to appreciate it.