Mr. S. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. ’ ‘What, a common soldier?’ ‘He was not a common soldier. He knocked at the door. Just dreamed—and ran away even from my dreams. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Ludicrously loud sounds streamed from the array of speakers. And, then, forsooth, she must needs prevent your hanging Jack Sheppard after the robbery in Wych Street, when you might have done so.
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