Chapter C: H a P. LXXIII

OF the few legitimate sons of _Adam_ whose breasts never felt what the sting of love was,—(maintaining first, all mysogynists to be bastards,)—the greatest heroes of ancient and modern story have carried off amongst them nine parts in ten of the honour; and I wish for their sakes I had the key of my study, out of my draw-well, only for five minutes, to tell you their names—recollect them I cannot—so be content to accept of these, for the present, in their stead.

There was the great king _Aldrovandus_, and _Bosphorus_, and _Cappadocius_, and _Dardanus_, and _Pontus_, and _Asius_,——to say nothing of the iron-hearted _Charles_ the XIIth, whom the Countess of K***** herself could make nothing of.——There was _Babylonicus_, and _Mediterraneus_, and _Polixenes_, and _Persicus_, and _Prusicus_, not one of whom (except _Cappadocius_ and _Pontus_, who were both a little suspected) ever once bowed down his breast to the goddess——The truth is, they had all of them something else to do—and so had my uncle _Toby_—till Fate—till Fate I say, envying his name the glory of being handed down to posterity with _Aldrovandus_’s and the rest,—she basely patched up the peace of _Utrecht._

——Believe me, Sirs, ’twas the worst deed she did that year.