While she was quite unconscious of the matter;--
But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her,
Out of his bullock-head.

That coxcombs _were_ and _are_, I need not give,
Nor take the trouble, now, to prove;
Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live,
Have thought a Lady's condescension, love.

This happen'd with fat Friar John!--
Monastick Coxcomb! amorous, and gummy;
Fill'd with conceit up to his very brim!--
He thought his guts and garbage doated on,
By a fair Dame, whose Husband was to _him_
Hyperion to a mummy.

Burning with flames the Lady never knew,
Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese,
He sent her a much warmer _billet-doux_
Than Abelard e'er writ to Eloise.

But whether Friar John's fat shape and face,
Tho' pleading both together,
Were sorry advocates, in such a case;--
Or, whether
He marr'd his hopes, by suffering his pen
With too much fervour to display 'em;--
As very tender Nurses, now and then,
Cuddle their Children, till they overlay 'em;--

'Twas plain, his pray'r to decorate the brows
Of good Sir Thomas was so far from granted,
That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse,
And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.

Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta'en, for life,
A partner to thy bed, for worse or better,
Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wife
Brandish'd, before his eyes, the Friar's letter!

[Illustration]

He felt, Sir,--Zounds!--
Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,--for it makes me swear--
More torture than he suffer'd from the wounds
He got among the French, in France;--
Not that I take upon me to advance
The knight was ever wounded there.

Think gravely, Sir, I pray:--fancy the Knight--
('Tis quite a Picture)--with his heart's delight!
Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand,
Holding the Friar's foulness in her hand!--

How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave?
Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:--
You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave,
A frouzy Friar, meddle'd with your Rib.

His bosom almost burst with ire
Against the Friar;

Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue;
His cheeks turn'd purple, and his nose turn'd blue;
He swore with this mock Saint he'd soon be even;--
He'd have him flay'd, like Saint Bartholomew;--
And, now again, he'd have him stone'd, like Stephen.