POOR Isabella, with her sight on ground, Confused, till then had scarcely looked around, Now raised her eyes, and luckily perceived The breeches, which her fears in part relieved, And that the sisters, by surprise unnerved, As oft's the case, had never once observed. She courage took, and to the abbess said, There's something from the Psalter, on your head, That awkwardly hangs down; pray, madam, try To put it right, or 'twill be in your eye. 'TWAS knee-strings, worn, at times, by priests and beaux, For, more or less, all follow fashion's laws. This veil, no doubt, had very much the air Of those unmentionables parsons wear; And this the nun, to frolicking inclined, It seems had well impressed upon her mind. What, cried the abbess, dares she still to sneer? How great her insolence to laugh and jeer, When sins so heavily upon her rest, And ev'ry thing remains quite unconfessed. Upon my word, she'd be a saint decreed; My veil, young imp, your notice cannot need; 'Tis better think, you little hellish crow, What pains your soul must undergo below. THE mother abbess sermonized and fired, And seemed as if her tongue would ne'er be tired. Again the culprit said, your Psalter, pray, Good madam, haste to set the proper way; On which the sisters looked, both young and old THOSE 'gan to laugh, while THESE were heard to scold.