And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. Always. “A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more. To her chagrin, he ignored her, and turned a venomous eye on his betrothed. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II.
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