_Father_. I wish she was! She has plagued the parish long enough! _Curate_. Shame farmer! Is that the charity your bible teaches? _Father_. My bible does not teach me to love witches. I know what’s charity; who pays his tithes And poor-rates readier? _Curate_. Who can better do it? You’ve been a prudent and industrious man, And God has blest your labour. _Father_. Why, thank God Sir, I’ve had no reason to complain of fortune. _Curate_. Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish Look up to you. _Father_. Perhaps Sir, I could tell Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. _Curate_. You can afford a little to the poor, And then what’s better still, you have the heart To give from your abundance. _Father_. God forbid I should want charity! _Curate_. Oh! ’tis a comfort To think at last of riches well employ’d! I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth Of a good deed at that most awful hour When riches profit not. Farmer, I’m going To visit Margery. She is sick I hear— Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, And death will be a blessing. You might send her Some little matter, something comfortable, That she may go down easier to the grave And bless you when she dies. _Father_. What! is she going! Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt In the black art. I’ll tell my dame of it, And she shall send her something. _Curate_. So I’ll say; And take my thanks for her’s. [_goes_] _Father_. That’s a good man That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit The poor in sickness; but he don’t believe In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian. _Nathaniel_. And so old Margery’s dying! _Father_. But you know She may recover; so drive t’other nail in! Eclogue VI ­ The Ruined Cottage