At length he came, and truly he Seemed pleased my work and self to see. "You must have studied soon and late To get it in this forward state. Those truant flies have never yet, I fear, their rightful owner met. I thank you greatly for this speed, But tell me, will the public read A tale like this, if I should choose To print it for them to peruse?" "Well, really, I can't tell," said I; "If it were mine I think I'd try: But many parts must altered be Before it will from faults be free. The satires on the lovely sex Some gentle heart will surely vex; You ought to rather soften down What else will make some fair one frown." "Not so," said he; "'tis only those Whom the dress fits will wear the clothes, For each will on her neighbour try The pointed truths the lines supply, And all will laugh and much enjoy What does not them, but friends, annoy." "Then, sir, I would curtail that scene In which the Friar feigns a dream; The tale he tells is much too long, And critics will pronounce it wrong,-- Too perfect it appears to me For an impromptu fib to be." "That's exactly the point, my good fellow," he said; "It was Fiction who stuffed all those lies in his head. He the fair muse invoked, so she had (I don't doubt it) Made him think of a good one while he was about it." I made other remarks, but each frailty he proved To be rather a beauty, so none were removed. And, kind reader, I'll beg you to keep this in mind, If with aught in the legend you wish fault to find, That each blemish or bull's in the manuscript line, While the prettiest bits are undoubtedly mine. But though he and Rosina took Me out one morn to have a look At what is called the Friar's Nook, And we together rambled o'er The moulding ruins to explore, Where I the name of Mary saw (Or what a tombstone seemed to me), I yet could never plainly see Why these should proofs conclusive be That Peter had resided here; But as it seemed to him so clear, I would not breathe a contradiction, But thought, Then truth's more strange than fiction. But now the tale itself we'll read, I have delayed you long, indeed; But what is life? to most a plain In which men roam in search of gain; They build, they plant, they heap up store, They work, they toil, they strive for more, Nor joys nor comforts will desire: Their wish, they say, is to retire, But when they would their wealth enjoy They find that every sweet will cloy. Now, though your patience, reader, 's vast, In hopes to reach the tale at last, I still must hope that here and there Some parts you'll find reward your care. The truth is I, so pleas'd had been With all that I had heard and seen, I thought, perhaps, that you Might with the old man's history, With all its pleasing mystery, Be interested too. * * * * * THE FRIAR. _CHAPTER THE FIRST._