"So much the worse," replied Jonathan, rising and taking a turn, as if uncertain what to do. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. "Rowland," she rejoined, "you strive in vain to terrify me into compliance with your wishes. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. 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.
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