“No, stay, Lucy. But if you mean to take me to this Gérard, I shall know what to say to him. “Shut up, you little faggot. "He wouldn't hurt a rabbit. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. "But bring your glim this way. 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.
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