. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. He was offered the Bowl, but he left it and smiled, Crying, "Keep it till call'd for by JONATHAN WILD! "The rascal one day, "Will pass by this way, "And drink a full measure to moisten his clay! "And never will Bowl of Saint Giles have beguiled "Such a thorough-paced scoundrel as JONATHAN WILD!" V. Take your pick, Mrs.
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