XXII.

It cost me no small time and pains to find

A rhyme to Polka; once I tried all night, And poked in

every corner of my mind,

T'will take a month to put my brains all right: I tried this word-then other words combined; And almost said-I own-I'm vanquished quite! There's but one bard I know, a worthy fellow, Who rhymes at will, and that is Bard Sordello.

XXIII.

One doctor made a solemn affidavit

Before the Lord Mayor of the town, that going To see a neighbour's child, in hopes to save it, He of a sudden had a mighty blow in His abdomen. Your pardon-let me crave it

For such a word. And he his arms out-throwing

The goblin caught, who bolted like an eel:

In fact, he was as slippery as Peel.

XXIV.

We left Ferando lying in a sleep

From which at three days' end he slowly woke ; He rubbed his eyes, and then began to weep,

Then into louder lamentation broke,

For he could nothing see but darkness deep;
And let me tell you, reader, 'tis no joke
To wake up-find yourself kicked out of bed
And not know whether you're alive or dead!

XXV.

Right suddenly the monk (our Abbot's friend)
Came to Ferando with a little candle

In one hand; in the other, a rope's end,

Which he commenced with jockey skill to handle. The half awakened sot began to send

Such moans and shrieks, to manhood's very scandal, You would have surely sworn-had there you been, 'Twas Hamlet being murdered by young Kean.

XXVI.

"Where am I?" said Ferando, roaring out

Like a mad bull (so goes Boccaccio's story)— "Where are you," said the monk with hideous shout, "Where you should be, you fool, in Purgatory!" And then again his scourge he laid about

The husband's back till it was torn and gory.

“What—am I dead?" (the poor Ferando bellows ;)

66

Yes, and in torment too for being jealous!"

XXVII.

After a time the monk grew faint and tired

Of lashing, so he paused and wiped his head;

For being corpulent, he much perspired :

Then bringing forth some meat, and wine, and bread,

He gave it to Ferando, who enquired

"If men could eat and drink when they were dead?" For tho' a fool-thought he—" The very deuce

Is in it, if dead men have gastric juice."

XXVIII.

"'Tis true (replied the monk), the meat and drink You see before you was this morning brought By your unhappy wife, who is, I think,

A pattern for all widows: she has bought Ten pounds of good wax candles, and won't shrink From buying 'till she has your freedom wrought From Purgatory; she all wives surpasses—

She's killing all the monks with singing masses!

XXIX.

To get your soul from this accursed place,
Your friend the Abbot's hoarse as any raven ;

And black as any negro in the face!

But doubtless as your appetite is craving;
At least I judge so from your lean grimace,
You'd better be some little dinner having;
But eat it slowly-masticate your food,
Or else, my friend, 'twill do you little good!"

XXX.

Ferando having fasted three whole days,

And three whole nights, was glad to get his dinner:

But still he swallowed it in some amaze,

For tho' he was a very stupid sinner,

He could not swallow all the priesthood says!

"Charles James' charge" chokes many a young be

ginner,

And if you add "white surplices," 'tis plain,

The human stomach brings all up again.

XXXI.

The conscience is a very tender organ!

Sometimes capricious: sometimes fixed and stable:

At times it will adore a Thug or Gorgon,

At other moments feels itself unable

To bow to any god, all faith and law gone-
Clean swept away, like to the Tower of Babel,
Which Nimrod Intellect built up so high,

As tho' to show it could not reach the sky.