Deep silences came between them. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. ’ ‘Then you will die at the hands of the canaille. The faithful fellow will never leave me. . “Contrarily, you are sitting on a sepulcher of death! It 30 is only a matter of time before the Pestilence strikes here again, Gianfrancesco. ‘You kissed me that you might make me find it for you instead?’ ‘I had no such intention. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied.
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