“’In the names on our books
   Was standing Tom Flooke’s,
Who took in due time his degrees;
   Which when he had taken,
   Like Ascham or Bacon,
By night he could snore and by day he could sneeze.

   “’Calm, pithy, pragmatical, {164a}
   Tom Flooke he could at a call
Rise up like a hound from his sleep;
   And if many a quarto
   He gave not his heart to,
If pellucid in lore, in his cups he was deep.

   “’He never did harm,
   And his heart might be warm,
For his doublet most certainly was so;
   And now has Torn Flooke
   A quieter nook
Than ever had Spenser or Tasso.

   “’He lives in his house,
   As still as a mouse,
Until he has eaten his dinner;
   But then doth his nose
   Outroar all the woes
That encompass the death of a sinner.

   “’And there oft has been seen
   No less than a dean
To tarry a week in the parish,
   In October and March,
   When deans are less starch,
And days are less gleamy and garish.

   “’That Sunday Tom’s eyes
   Look’d always more wise,
He repeated more often his text;
   Two leaves stuck together,
   (The fault of the weather)
And . . .  The rest ye shall hear in my next.

   “’At mess he lost quite
   His small appetite,
By losing his friend the good dean;
   The cook’s sight must fail her! 
   The eggs sure are staler! 
The beef, too!—­why, what can it mean?

   “’He turned off the butcher,
   To the cook could he clutch her,
What his choler had done there’s no saying —
   ’T is verily said
   He smote low the cock’s head,
And took other pullets for laying.’

“On this being concluded, Doctor Glaston said he shrewdly suspected an indigestion on the part of Mr. Thomas Flooke, caused by sitting up late and studying hard with Mr. Dean; and he protested that theology itself should not carry us into the rawness of the morning air, particularly in such critical months as March and October, in one of which the sap rises, in the other sinks, and there are many stars very sinister.”

Sir Thomas shook his head, and declared he would not be uncharitable to rector, or dean, or doctor, but that certain surmises swam uppermost.  He then winked at Master Silas, who said, incontinently, -

“You have it, Sir Thomas!  The blind buzzards! with their stars and saps!”

“Well, but Silas! you yourself have told us over and over again, in church, that there are arcana.”

“So there are,—­I uphold it,” replied Master Silas; “but a fig for the greater part, and a fig-leaf for the rest.  As for these signs, they are as plain as any page in the Revelation.”

Sir Thomas, after short pondering, said, scoffingly, —