“Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything. However good you were to me, and however happy I was in other ways, I should find this intolerable. 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.
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