But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. “There ought to be a Censorship of Books. 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. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. " "That is very kind of you," she acknowledged.
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