"You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child's neck twisted. 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. She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. She closed her eyes and felt again an echo of the swamping warmth that had attacked her when his lips met hers.
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