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.