He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison. Nor must it be imagined, that while he thus exercised his teeth, he neglected the flagon. His appetite was perfectly Gargantuan. "Ay, indeed! And who may that be?" inquired his wife. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. But she made no answer. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. If you talk of your faults, I shall talk of your splendors. 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. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. And the way he and the other men looked at her! The desire was plain on their faces, so many noblemen reduced to their simplest elements! They looked at her sideways, they looked at her backside, scanning her blue eyes and even looking right into her face. ‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled.
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