"You have," rejoined Jonathan, laying a forcible grasp on his shoulder. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. He wants you—or he doesn’t; and then he helps some other woman against you. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. ’ She struggled. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. None at all. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle.
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