I have been very accurate in my researches, And find this Convent (truce with _whys_ and _hows_) Kept in a constant ferment with the _rows_ Of these two quarrelsome fat sons of Churches. But when Sir Thomas went to his devotions, Proceeding thro' their Cloister with his Bride, You never could have dream'd of their commotions, The stiff-rump'd rascals look'd so sanctified: And it became the custom of the Knight To go to matins every day; He jogg'd his Bride, as soon as it was light, Crying, "my dear, 'tis time for us to pray."-- This custom he establish'd, very soon, After his honey-moon. Wives of this age might think his zeal surprising; But much his pious lady did it please, To see her Husband, every morning, rising, And going, instantly, upon his knees. Never, I ween, In any person's recollection, Was such a couple seen, For genuflection! Making as great a drudgery of prayer As humble Curates are oblige'd to do,-- Whose labour, wo the while! scarce buys them cassocks; And, every morning, whether foul or fair, Sir Thomas and the Dame were in their pew, Craw-thumping, upon hassocks. It could not otherwise befall (Sir Thomas, and his Wife, this course pursuing,) But that the Lady, affable to all, Should greet the Friars, on her way To matins, as she met them, every day, _Good morninging_, and _how d'ye doing_: Now nodding to this Friar, now to that, As thro' the Cloister she was wont to trip; Stopping, sometimes, to have a little chat, On casual topicks, with the holy brothers;-- So condescending was her Ladyship, To Roger, John, and all the others. All this was natural enough To any female of urbanity;-- But holy men are made of as frail stuff As all the lighter sons of Vanity!-- And these her Ladyship's chaste condescensions, In Friar John bred damnable desire; Heterodox, unclean intentions;-- Abominable in a Friar! Whene'er she greeted him, his gills grew red, While she was quite unconscious of the matter;-- But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her, Out of his bullock-head. That coxcombs _were_ and _are_, I need not give, Nor take the trouble, now, to prove; Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live, Have thought a Lady's condescension, love. This happen'd with fat Friar John!-- Monastick Coxcomb! amorous, and gummy; Fill'd with conceit up to his very brim!-- He thought his guts and garbage doated on, By a fair Dame, whose Husband was to _him_ Hyperion to a mummy. Burning with flames the Lady never knew, Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese, He sent her a much warmer _billet-doux_ Than Abelard e'er writ to Eloise.