XXX

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XXX

These to the coach of state are bound,

Breakfast the busy cooks prepare,

Baggage is heaped up in a mound,

Old women at the coachmen swear.

A bearded postillion astride

A lean and shaggy nag doth ride,

Unto the gates the servants fly

To bid the gentlefolk good-bye.

These take their seats; the coach of state

Leisurely through the gateway glides.

“Adieu! thou home where peace abides,

Where turmoil cannot penetrate,

Shall I behold thee once again?”⁠—

Tattiana tears cannot restrain.