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. Wood with the circumstances, and putting him upon his guard against the possibility of an attack. "What's the matter?" repeated Mrs. Through no fault of her own. Oh, to face facts! Gods! what a world it might be if people faced facts! Understanding! Understanding! There is no other salvation.
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