I might do myself no harm. 
  So I tumbled and toss’d all night, as you may very well think,
  But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. 
  So I was a-dream’d, methought, that I went and search’d the folks round,
  And in a corner of Mrs. Dukes’s box, tied in a rag the money was found. 
  So next morning we told Whittle, and he fell a-swearing: 
  Then my dame Wadger came:  and she, you know, is thick of hearing: 
  “Dame,” said I, as loud as I could bawl, “do you know what a loss
          I have had?”
  “Nay,” said she, “my Lord Colway’s folks are all very sad;
  For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail.” 
  “Pugh!” said I, “but that’s not the business that I ail.” 
  Says Cary, says he, “I’ve been a servant this five-and-twenty years
          come spring,
  And in all the places I lived I never heard of such a thing.” 
  “Yes,” says the Steward, “I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury’s,
  Such a thing as this happen’d, just about the time of gooseberries.” 
  So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief,
  (Now, you must know, of all things in the world I hate a thief,)
  However, I was resolved to bring the discourse slily about: 
  “Mrs. Dukes,” said I, “here’s an ugly accident has happen’d out: 
  ’Tis not that I value the money three skips of a mouse;
  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. Dukes, you know, and everybody understands,
  That tho’ ’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 tho’ I had called her all to nought. 
  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 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, d’ye see: 
  You are no text for my handling; so take that from me: 
  I was never taken for a conjuror before, I’d have you to know.” 
  “Law!” 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 conjuror