Weshould observe, this Angel was a wag,
          A novice-friar and a convent fag;
          Like him the others round had parts to act,
          And were disguised in dresses quite exact. 
          Our penitent most humbly pardon sought;
          Said he, if e’er to life again I’m brought,
          No jealousy, suspicion’s hateful bane,
          Shall ever enter my distracted brain. 
          May I not have this grace, this wished for boon? 
          Some hopes they gave, but it could not be soon;
          In short a year he lay upon the floor: 
          Just food for life received, and nothing more,
          Each day on bread and water he was fed,
          And o’er his back the cat-o’nine-tails spread: 
          Full twenty lashes were the number set,
          Unless the friar should from Heav’n first get
          Permission to remit at times a part,
          For charity was glowing in his heart.

          We, must not doubt, he often offered prayers,
          To ease the culprit’s sufferings and cares. 
          The Angel likewise made a long discourse;
          Said he, those vile suspicions were the source,
          Of all thy sorrow, wretchedness, and pain: 
          Think’st thou such thoughts the clergy entertain? 
          A friar white!—­too bad in ev’ry sense: 
          Ten strokes to one, if black, for such offence. 
          Repent, I say:—­the other this desired,
          Though scarcely he could tell what was required.

          Meanwhilethe prelate with the fav’rite dame,
          No time to lose, made ev’ry hour the same. 
          The husband, with a sigh, was heard to say: 
          I wonder what my wife’s about to-day? 
          About?—­whate’er it be ’tis doubtless right;
          Our friar, to console her, takes delight;
          Thy business too is managed as before,
          And anxious care bestowed upon thy store.

          Hasshe as usual matters that demand
          Attendance at the cloister to be scanned?—­
          No doubt was the reply, for having now
          The whole affair upon her feeble brow,
          Poor woman! be her wishes what they will,
          She more assistance wants thy loss to fill.

          Discourselike this no pleasure gave the soul: 
          To call him so seems best upon the whole,
          Since he’d not pow’r like others here to feed:—­
          Mere earthly shadow for a time decreed.

          A month was passed in fasting, pains, and prayer;
          Some charity the friar made him share,
          And now and then remission would direct;
          The widow too he never would neglect,
          But, all the consolation in his pow’r,
          Bestowed