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. "Shotbolt! by—" cried Austin, as the captive was dragged forth. Did you know you’re very maternal? Damn, you’re more maternal than my Mom. "Oh! never mind him: he'll take no harm! Come with me into the parlour. “But if you had?” she said.
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