And when, at length, it was struck, he wanted energy to pursue his advantages. "You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance. ‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. 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.
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