I don’t! Please enlighten me. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. They must be for your father. 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. The boy she had loved was gone. But it sounds too real to be imagined.
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