"I swear it," rejoined Jonathan, readily. It's fortunate we've no more Jack Sheppards, or I should stand but a poor chance. So, when I tell you she loves you, I know. 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. "Leave me to my fate," rejoined Jack. I will take you for thirty-five shillings a week.
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