"Let him alone, Mr. Gay. When a man's in his cups he's best by himself.
'Twill take him a day's snoring to get rid of his bout. The landlord
here tells me he walked with the mob from Newgate to Tyburn and back and
refreshed himself at every tavern on the way, not forgetting, I warrant
you, to fling away a guinea at the Bowl, the Lamb, and the 'Black Jack'
over yonder, and drink to the long life of the daring rogue in the cart
and the health of the hangman to boot."
"Long life indeed, my lord. A couple of hours at most. Not that the
length of life is to be measured by years. I don't know but what it's
possible to cram one's whole existence into a few hours, thanks to that
thief of time," rejoined John Gay pointing to the bottle on the table.
The poet's placid face saddened. John Gay had always taken life as a
pleasure, but there is no pleasure without pain as he had come to
discover. Maybe at that moment a recollection of his follies gave his
conscience a tinge. Of Gay it might be said that he had no enemies other
than himself.
"Oh, the passing hour is the best doubtless, since we never know whether
the next may not be the worst," laughed Henry St. John, Lord
Bolingbroke. "I'll wager Jack Sheppard's best was when the noose was
round his neck. The rascal will trouble nervous folks no more. After all
he was of some use. See that drunken rabble. But for the brave show he
made at Tyburn yesterday, would those ladies and gentlemen be merry
making, think you, and would the tavern keepers and the gin sellers be
putting money in their pockets?"
Gay turned his eyes to the open window.
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