The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. He looked half at her and half at the sky. 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. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months.
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