Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. Why did he take me?’ Martha’s damp eyes were puzzled. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. 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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