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Oh, nature, green unnatural mother, how I have followed where you led. Is it for this I left the country? No ploughman is more a slave to sun, moon, and season than a gentleman to the clock of fashion. City! What Caesar could have imagined the curious viands I have tasted!. They choke me. Let Oporto and Provence keep all their precious wines. I would as soon be dry and wrinkled as a raisin as ever taste another. Cards! Living pictures! And, dear God, the matrons with marriageable girls!. Cover their charms a little, you well-bred bawds, or your goods will catch their death of the rheum long before they learn of the green sickness. The others, too, with their more candid charms. Pah! Who's honest, chaste, or kind? One, only one, and of her I dare not think.
(He stands up)
Up, nature, up! The hunt is on, thy pack is in full cry! They smell the blood upon the bracing air. On, on, on! Through every street and mansion, for every candle in this capital of light attends thy appetising progress and burns in honour at thy shrine.
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