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. Jonathan, however, still lingered. ” She shook her head. ‘Who is that man? What has he to do with you? No, don’t tell me. ” She pulled her dress back over her breasts, glad for the elastic that she had sewn in. .
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