I saw him yesterday, and he told me he shouldn't stir from home for a week to come. 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 say," retorted Edgeworth Bess, with a very unfeminine imprecation, "I shan't stand any more of that nonsense. So you are Prudence Remenham. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. Mr. “Turned out to be an impostor, too. . And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts.
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