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. “Please forgive me. Whenever ecstasy— any kind of ecstasy—filled her heart to bursting, these physical expressions eased the pressure. "No prize shall indushe me to enter dat horrid plashe again. Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn.
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