‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. 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. Taber?" He wondered if this crystal being was interested in that blundering fool who had gone recklessly into the city.
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