By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. “It’s the spring,” he said. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. “Our ways happened to lie together.
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