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. " He did not pause to consider how she had learned that he had imagination; he comprehended only the direct challenge. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. Kneebone, are these your French noblemen?" "Don't upbraid me!" rejoined the woollen-draper. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement.
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