The air was pungent and leaden. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. Opening the door, he found it littered with straw, on which he threw himself, and instantly fell asleep. 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. He picked her up outside her last period Ceramics class.
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