"The devil take me," said she (blessing herself), "if ever I saw't!" So she roar'd like a Bedlam, as tho' I had called her all to nought. So you know, what could I say to her any more? I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man: "No," said I, "'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here anon." So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd, "Parson," said I, "can you cast a nativity when a body's plunder'd?" (Now you must know, he hates to be called _parson_, like the devil.) "Truly," says he, "Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil; If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see: You are no text for my handling; so take that from me: I was never taken for a conjuror before, I'd have you to know." "Law!" said I, "don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife, I never took one in your coat for a conjuror in all my life." With that, he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, "Now you may go hang yourself for me!" and so went away. Well: I thought I should have swoon'd, "Law!" said I, "what shall I do? I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!" Then my Lord called me: "Harry," said my Lord, "don't cry, I'll give you something towards your loss;" and, says my Lady, "so will I." "O, but," said I, "what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to?" For that, he said, (an't please your Excellencies), I must petition you. The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' protection, And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection: And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter, With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: And then your poor petitioner both night and day, Or the chaplain (for 'tis his trade), as in duty bound, shall ever pray. XXVII. ELEGY ON PARTRIDGE. This was written to satirize the superstitious faith placed in the predictions of the almanac-makers of the period. Partridge was the name of one of them--a cobbler by profession. Fielding also satirized the folly in _Tom Jones_. The elegy is upon "his supposed death", which drew from Partridge an indignant denial.