Our schemes of happiness below
End in disgrace, are mark'd with woe;
If from the hive we'd honey bring,
We may be treated with a sting.

A handsome Priest, but not a lewder,
Lived in the reign of Henry Tudor.
Condemn'd to pass a single life,
Though he'd much rather had a wife;
For prudent wives, in many a case,
Will tend to keep us from disgrace,
And, vice versá, we conclude,
There's cases where a husband's good.
But if he had none, good or bad,
Could point out many a man who had;
And beauties too. Could he decoy them
His first advances were to eye them.
Nor is it hard for lovely faces
To get into each other's graces.
When youth and charms together mess,
'Tis easy to insure success;
A leer, a bow, a smile, a squeeze,
Are often sent, and often please.
To press the hand, will soon impart
The road directly to the heart;
The heart once conquer'd in the breast,
He eas'ly captur'd all the rest.

A priestly dress is the most sure
To find a way through ev'ry door.
What lock or bolt could ever stand
Against a priest with cowl and band?
And when he enters with an air,
Becomes the chief commander there;
Knows every dish, is often tasting;
Master of all things, but of--fasting.
Possession, if he once obtain,
As easy is to keep, as gain.
Then comes confession, absolution,
Advice, and pardons in profusion;
With dinners, suppers, benediction,
Charming barriers against detection.
They'll house him safely, and what's more,
Will keep suspicion out of door.

Our handsome Priest, of fair renown,
Had beauties scatter'd through the town;
In whate'er street he should appear,
A bright seraglio was there.
But what to this would conscience say?
Why, eas'ly argue faults away.
He thought an injury none could tell,
If he drew from another's well;
Because supplies within remain
Which instant fill the well again.

It far'd well with our handsome Priest,
Who, all his life-time, had been bless'd.
The smiles of fortune, and the fair,
Had quite disbanded every care;
And he suppos'd, through life's remain,
They'd never muster force again.

Alas, how shallow are our schemes,
Nay empty, just as idle dreams.
He was, upon a Christmas tide,
Caught in a fact he wish'd to hide;
And, in a posture, I confess,
A posture-I'll leave you to guess.
Yet keen-ey'd servants, at the time,
Accus'd him but of half a crime;
The other half, those servants said,
They boldly on their mistress laid.
O, why not on St. Martin call,
To save him from a dreadful fall?
But, close engag'd, the people say,
He'd something else to do than pray.

The matter's blaz'd, the people smile,
He's dragg'd before the court awhile,
Where a stern sentence issued thence is
Of penance for his past offences.

Now to the crowd expos'd to view,
Adorn' d with sheet, and candle too,
His face look'd handsome as before,
But modester than 'twas of yore;
For sorrow, with his harsh rebukes,
Will rather tend to spoil our looks.
The rude, among the crowd of folks,
Could not refrain from spouting jokes.
'If punish'd, when he goes astray,
He'll hold a candle every day;
At least he should due penance seek,
Be clothed and lighted once a week.
His powers have peopled many a street;
He sins and suffers in a sheet:
Is better versed, upon the whole,
In forming bodies than the soul.
A candle he takes now and then
To let his light shine before men.'

One of the members of the throng
Address'd a priest who march'd along,
And told him plainly, 'that the times
Could not excuse such heinous crimes;
And hop'd the priests would keep from wives;
Would live, in future, righteous lives.
The clergy should disdain the sheet,
Nor carry candles in the street.
Their piety should shine agen,
And lanthorns be to other men.'

The Parson, with a smiling eye,
Instantly made him this reply
'What priest or smith can work by rules
When you deprive him of his tools?
No lanthorn e'er our hand adorns
Because you laymen wear the horns.'