"Open my heart, Father of Mercy!" she murmured, in a humble tone, and with downcast looks, "and make me sensible of the error of my ways. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. "'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater," replied the tar. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues The fuller I fill it—the fuller! IV. It’s not fair to you.
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