down their heads to you. What, say you, my London Caloro, what say
you to my plan?

Myself.--Your plan is a plausible one, mother, or at least some
people would think so; but I am, as you are aware, of another chim,
and have no inclination to pass my life in this country.

Gypsy Mother.--Then return to your own country, my Caloro, the
chabi can cross the pani. Would she not do business in London with
the rest of the Calore? Or why not go to the land of the Corahai?
In which case I would accompany you; I and my daughter, the mother
of the chabi.

Myself.--And what should we do in the land of the Corahai? It is a
poor and wild country, I believe.

Gypsy Mother.--The London Caloro asks me what we could do in the
land of the Corahai! Aromali! I almost think that I am speaking
to a lilipendi (simpleton). Are there not horses to chore? Yes, I
trow there are, and better ones than in this land, and asses and
mules. In the land of the Corahai you must hokkawar and chore even
as you must here, or in your own country, or else you are no
Caloro. Can you not join yourselves with the black people who live
in the despoblados? Yes, surely; and glad they would be to have
among them the Errate from Spain and London. I am seventy years of
age, but I wish not to die in this chim, but yonder, far away,
where both my roms are sleeping. Take the chabi, therefore, and go
to Madrilati to win the parne, and when you have got it, return,
and we will give a banquet to all the Busne in Merida, and in their
food I will mix drow, and they shall eat and burst like poisoned