hate a thief:)
However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: 
“Mrs. Duke,” said I, “here’s an ugly accident has happened out: 
’Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse:[10]
But the thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. 
’Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence makes a great hole
  in my wages: 
Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. 
Now, Mrs. Duke, you know, and everybody understands,
That though ’tis hard to judge, yet money can’t go without hands.” 
“The devil take me!” said she, (blessing herself,) “if ever I saw’t!”
So she roar’d like a bedlam, as thof I had call’d her all to naught. 
So, you know, what could I say to her any more? 
I e’en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. 
Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man: 
“No,” said I, “’tis the same thing, the CHAPLAIN[11] will be here anon.” 
So the Chaplain came in.  Now the servants say he is my sweetheart,
Because he’s always in my chamber, and I always take his part. 
So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder’d,
“Parson” said I, “can you cast a nativity, when a body’s plunder’d?”
(Now you must know, he hates to be called Parson, like the devil!)
“Truly,” says he, “Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil;
If your money be gone, as a learned Divine says,[12] d’ye see,
You are no text for my handling; so take that from me: 
I was never taken for a Conjurer before, I’d have you to know.” 
“Lord!” said I, “don’t be angry, I am sure I never thought you so;
You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a Parson’s wife;
I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all my life.” 
With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say,
“Now you may go hang yourself for me!” and so went away. 
Well:  I thought I should have swoon’d.  “Lord!” said I, “what shall I do? 
I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too!”
Then my lord call’d me:  “Harry,"[13] said my lord, “don’t cry;
I’ll give you something toward thy loss.”  “And,” says my lady, “so will
 I.” 
Oh! but, said I, what if, after all, the Chaplain won’t come to? 
For that, he said (an’t please your Excellencies), I must petition you. 
  The premisses tenderly consider’d, I desire your Excellencies’
  protection,
And that I may have a share in next Sunday’s collection;
And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies’ letter,
With an order for the Chaplain aforesaid, or, instead of him, a better: 
And then your poor petitioner, both night and day,
Or the Chaplain (for ’tis his trade,[14]) as in duty bound, shall ever
  pray.

[Footnote 1:  The Earl of Berkeley and the Earl of Galway.]

[Footnote 2:  Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine.]