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Heaven's choicest blessings we abuse. 50 For every Englishman alive, Whether Duke, Lord, Esquire, or Gent, Claims, as his just prerogative, Wase, Liberty, and Discontent. A Frenchman often starves and sings, With cheerfulness and wooden shoes.

A Peasant of the true French breed, Was driving in a narrow road, A cart, with but one sorry steed, And fill'd with onions - savory load! Careless he trudg'd along before, Singing a Gascon Roundelay. Hard by there ran a whispering brook; The road hung shelving towards the brim; The spiteful wind the advantage took; The wheel flies up, the onions swim. The Peasant saw his favourite stove, At one rude blast, all puff'd away.