Be that as it may, on the very first day That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee, What occurr'd almost frignten'd her senses away, Beside scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty. They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds Of the new Saint, to whom all the Town said their orisons: And especially how, as regards invalids, His miraculous cures far outrivall'd Von Morison's. "The cripples," said they, "fling their crutches away, And people born blind now can easily see us!"-- But she, (we presume, a disciple of Hume,) Shook her head, and said angrily, "_Credat Judæus!_" "Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars, To bring grist to their mill, these devices have hit on.-- He works miracles!--pooh!--I'd believe it of you Just as soon, you great Geese,--or the Chair that I sit on!" The Chair,--at that word--it seems really absurd, But the truth must be told,--what contortions and grins Distorted her face!--She sprang up from her place Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins! For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard Which she uttered, of what was beneath her forgetful, Each particular hair stood on end in the chair, Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful. That stout maroon leather, they pierced altogether, Like tenter-hooks holding when clench'd from within, And the maids cried "Good gracious! how very tenacious!" --They as well might endeavour to pull off her skin!-- She shriek'd with the pain, but all efforts were vain; In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle,-- The cushion stuck fast!--From that hour to her last She could never get rid of that comfortless "Bustle!" And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death Of his King, heard "the very stones prate of his whereabouts;' So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life Crying "Murder!" resound from the cushion,--or thereabouts. With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark As to what his fate was; but I cannot imagine he Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be Both by Ribadaneira and Jacques de Voragine: For cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure, And "History's Muse" still to prove it her pen holds, As you'll see, if you look in a rather scarce book, "_God's Revenge against Murder_," by one Mr. Reynolds. MORAL. Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander away, Like Ulysses of old,[12] (_vide_ Homer and Naso,) Don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day, And when you _are_ coming home, just write and say so! And you, learned Clerks, who're _not_ given to roam, Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum; Don't visit a house when the Master's from home! Shun drinking,--and study the "_Vitæ Sanctorum!_"