She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath.
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