The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. 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. ’ ‘You wouldn’t,’ agreed Mrs Sindlesham. ” She replied. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. "Rot, weren't they?" "No.
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