“Please stop fighting me. 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. “She appears to be very popular here,” she remarked. "In the mean time, with your permission, I'll just make a few minutes of our conversation. ‘Kill him? Oh. "O lud! what an exquisite box!" cried Edgeworth Bess.
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