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 XII, 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.