“His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. You know that, and I know that, though we might be put to it to find a reason why. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, 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! III. We'll have him on his way before many days. Get nothing out of me.
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