"Basely and inhumanly murdered, by Jack Sheppard and Blueskin," continued Kneebone. He looked eager and flushed and troubled. Spurling had retired for the night. 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. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. Prudence.
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