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. I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball. In the afternoon my brain and fingers leap to their work because you have been with me. The temperature soared to one hundred degrees, sickeningly hot. Sheppard let fall her basket. Manning might go on now idealizing her as much as he liked.
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