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. The old man was conducted to Jack's cell by the turnkey, who remained near him during their interview. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. “How is that carmine working?” he asked, with a forced interest. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. "Again," cried Jonathan, sternly: "beware!" "What!" vociferated Trenchard. Mr.
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