To get the Priest with expedition wived, And sent away; for fathers will suspect Her inward worth, whose ways are incorrect— Patience, my dear! your Lover _will_ appear; At this new tale, then, what will be your cheer? “I hear,” says he—and he will look as grim As if he heard his lass accusing him— “I hear, my Celia, your alluring looks Kept the young Curate from his holy books. 380 Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray; } But ’tis their duty—not the better they; } ’Tis done for policy, for praise, for pay— } Or, let the very best be understood, They’re men, you know, and men are flesh and blood. Now, they do say—but let me not offend— } You were too often with this pious friend, } And spent your time”—— } _C._ “As people ought to spend. } And, sir, if you of some divine would ask Aid in your doubts, it were a happy task. 390 But you, alas! the while, are not perplex’d By the dark meaning of a threat’ning text; You rather censure her who spends her time In search of Truth, as if it were a crime! Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel, To whom should I, in my distress, appeal? A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must, } When you will need a faithful Priest to trust, } In conscience tender, but in counsel just. } Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence strive, 400 And, if I could, would keep your Love alive; But there are things that our attention claim, More near than Love, and more desired than Fame!” _D._ “But why in secret?” he will ask you— _C._ “Why? Oh, Charles! could you the doubting spirit spy, Had you such fears, all hearers you would shun; What one confesses should be heard by one. Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so long With such companions, that you will be wrong. We fill our minds from those with whom we live, 410 And, as your fears are Nature’s, I forgive; But learn your peace and my good name to prize, And fears of fancy let us both despise!” _D._ Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance— You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance. ’Tis not sufficient that we’re pure and just; The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust— Will he himself appear, or will he send, Duteous as warm, and not alarm my friend? We need not ask—behold! his servant comes: 420 His father’s livery! no fond heart presumes. Thus he prepares you—kindly gives you space To arm your mind, and rectify your face. Now, read your Letter—while my faithful heart Feels all that his can dictate or impart. Nay! bless you, love! what melancholy tale Conveys that paper? Why so deadly pale? It is his sister’s writing, but the seal Is red: he lives. What is it that you feel? _C._ Oh, my dear friend! let us from man retreat, 430