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. When ninety per cent. I am far too much the gentleman. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, pervert?” “Yes sir. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. ” “Every one hasn’t the Gift. "Jonathan Wild shall find it's not easy to detain me. “You delicate female!” “Who cares,” said Ann Veronica, “seeing it’s you? Warm, soft little wonders! Of course I want them. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men.
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