‘Why did you bring him? I hate him. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. ‘Because you are a bête, and a pig, and imbecile. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. ‘More nor that. “I’d sooner condemn you to Hell. He might miss at this distance. ” “You shall have every penny of it back.
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