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.
