Therural mind by nature jealous proves;
          Suspicion shows of ev’ry thing that moves;
          Unused to city ways, perverse appears,
          And, undismayed, to principle adheres: 

          Thefriar found his situation hard;
          He loved his ease?—­all trouble would discard;
          As priests in gen’ral anxiously desire;
          Their plan howe’er I never can admire,
          And should not choose at once to take the town,
          But by the escalade obtain the crown;
          In love I mean; to war I don’t allude: 
          No silly bragging I would here intrude,
          Nor be enrolled among the martial train: 
          ‘Tis Venus’ court that I should like to gain. 
          Let t’other custom be the better way: 
          It matters not; no longer I’ll delay,
          But to my tale return, and fully state,
          How our receiver, who misused his mate;
          Was put in purgatory to be cured,
          And, for a time, most thoroughly immured.

          Bymeans of opiate powders, much renowned,
          The friar plunged him in a sleep profound. 
          Thought dead; the fun’ral obsequies achieved,
          He was surprised, and doubtless sorely grieved,
          When he awoke and saw where he was placed,
          With folks around, not much to suit his taste;
          For in the coffin he at large was left,
          And of the pow’r to move was not bereft,
          But might arise and walk about the tomb,
          Which opened to another vaulted room,
          The gloomy, hollow mansion of the dead: 
          Fear quickly o’er his drooping spirits spread. 
          What’s here? cried he:  is’t sleep, or is it death;
          Some charm or spell perhaps withdraws their breath. 
          Our wight then asked their names and business there;
          And why he was retained in such a snare? 
          In what had he offended God or man?—­

          Said one, console thyself:—­past moments scan;
          When thou hast rested here a thousand years,
          Thou’lt then ascend amid the Heav’nly spheres;
          But first in holy purgatory learn,
          To cleanse thyself from sins that we discern;
          One day thy soul shall leave this loathsome place,
          And, pure as ice, repair to realms of grace. 
          Then this consoling Angel gave a thwack,
          And ten or dozen stripes laid on his back:—­
          ’Tis thy unruly, jealous mind, said he,
          Displeases God, and dooms thee here to be.

          A mournful sigh the lorn receiver heaved,
          His aching shoulders rubbed, and sobbed and grieved;
          A thousand years, cried he, ’tis long indeed! 
          My very soul with horror seems to bleed.