SINCE 'twere improper such a fact were known; When proofs perhaps too clearly might be shown, So many prayers were said and vigils kept, At length the soul from purgatory crept, So much reduced, and ev'ry way so thin But little more he seemed than bones and skin. A THING so strange filled numbers with surprise, Who scarcely would believe their ears and eyes. The friar passed for saint:--Feronde his fruit; None durst presume to doubt nor to dispute; A double miracle at once appeared The dead's return: the lady's state revered. With treble force Te Deum round was sung; Sterility in marriage oft was rung, And near the convent many offered prayers, In hopes their fervent vows would gain them heirs. THE humble spouse and wife we now shall leave Let none, howe'er, suppose that we conceive, Each husband merits, as our soul, the same, To cure the jealous fears his breast inflame. THE PSALTER ONCE more permit me, nuns, and this the last; I can't resist, whatever may have passed, But must relate, what often I've been told; Your tales of convent pranks are seldom cold; They have a grace that no where else we find, And, somehow, better seem to please designed. Another then we'll have, which three will make:-- Three did I say?-'tis four, or I mistake; Let's count them well:-The GARD'NER first, we'll name; Then comes the ABBESS, whose declining frame Required a youth, her malady to cure A story thought, perhaps, not over pure; And, as to SISTER JANE, who'd got a brat, I cannot fancy we should alter that. These are the whole, and four's a number round; You'll probably remark, 'tis strange I've found Such pleasure in detailing convent scenes:-- 'Tis not my whim, but TASTE, that thither leans: And, if you'd kept your breviary in view, 'Tis clear, you'd nothing had with this to do; We know, howe'er, 'tis not your fondest care; So, quickly to our hist'ry let's repair.