Your in such bad helth and sperrits.
Fifthly.

Your so afraid of the critix, that they damp your arder.
For shame, for shame, man! What confeshns is these,--what painful pewling and piping! Your not a babby.

I take you to be some seven or eight and thutty years old--"in the morning of youth," as the flosofer says.

Don't let any such nonsince take your reazn prisoner.

What, you, an old hand amongst us,--an old soljer of our sovring quean the press,--you, who have had the best pay, have held the topmost rank (ay, and DESERVED them too!--I gif you lef to quot me in sasiaty, and say, "I AM a man of genius: Y-ll-wpl-sh says so"),--you to lose heart, and cry pickavy, and begin to howl, because little boys fling stones at you! Fie, man! take courage; and, bearing the terrows of your blood-red hand, as the poet says, punish us, if we've ofended you: punish us like a man, or bear your own punishment like a man.