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Oh! joy, joy! no more helmet, no more cheese nor onions! [1130] No, I have no passion for battles; what I love is to drink with good comrades in the corner by the fire when good dry wood, [1135] cut in the height of the summer, is crackling; it is to cook pease on the coals and beechnuts among the embers, it is to kiss our pretty Thracian while my wife is at the bath.

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