You must forgive the poet’s license I take. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. 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. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. " "You would, if you had seen what I have. I hoped for a family like the Becks and I waded through the system until I got them, so maybe life isn’t so damn hopeless after all. ” “You said you loved me – did you mean it?” He said. Get on with it, then.
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