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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 33, July, 1860 by Various
page 39 of 289 (13%)
That seemed like gold a-chinking.

'Twere wrong to infer from what you're read
That Richard awoke with an aching head;
For nerves like his resisted
With wonderful ease what we might deem
Enough to stagger a Polypheme,
And his spirits would never more than seem
A trifle too much "assisted."

And yet in the morn no fumes were there,
And his eyes were bright,--almost as a pair
Of eyes that you and I know;
For his head, the best authorities write,
(See the Story of Tuck,) was always right
And sound as ever after a night
Of _"Pellite curas vino!"_

As soon as the light broke into his tent,
Without delay for a herald he sent,
And bade him don his tabard,
And away to the Count to say, "By law
_That gold_ was the king's: unless he saw
The same ere noon, his sword he would draw
And throw away the scabbard."

An hour, for his morning exercise,
He swayed that sword of wondrous size,--
'Twas called his great "persuader";
Then a mace of steel he smote in two,--
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