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. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love.
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