He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. Capes. I think we will soon, though. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper.
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