By the side of her plate was a small key. While I have been pestering you, have you heard it? At least, you heard the first act. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. 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. There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you.
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