Gosse were you born, and Gosse will you remain to your death. 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. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. His eyes were fixed upon her face, but he opened his lips twice before he spoke. Her head dipped deeply into the current, and she narrowly escaped being swamped. "The Dawn Pearl," he said.
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