| |
| “I COME your sin-rid souls to shrive; | |
| Is this the way wherein ye live?” | |
| We lightly think of virtue, | |
| Enjoyment cannot hurt you. | |
| |
| “Ye love. Hear then of chivalry, | 5 |
| Of gallant truth and constancy.” | |
| We find new loves the meetest, | |
| And stolen kisses sweetest. | |
| |
| “Voices ye have. Then should ye sing | |
| In praise of heaven’s mighty king.” | 10 |
| We deem it is our duty | |
| To chant our darlings’ beauty. | |
| |
| “Strait are the gates of worldly pleasure; | |
| The joy beyond no soul can measure.” | |
| Alas! we are but mortal, | 15 |
| And much prefer the portal. | |
| |
| “Nay, sons: then must I leave ye so; | |
| But lost will be your souls, I trow.” | |
| Nay, Father, make you merry; | |
| Come, drawer, bring some sherry. | 20 |
| |
| “Me drink? Old birds are not unwary— | |
| Still less—Ha—well—’t is fine canary.” | |
| Mark how his old blood prances— | |
| A stoup for Father Francis! | |
| |
| “Your wine, my sons, is wondrous good, | 25 |
| And hath been long time in the wood.” | |
| Mark how his old eye dances— | |
| More wine for Father Francis! | |
| |
| “A man, my sons—a man, I say, | |
| Might well drink here till judgement-day.” | 30 |
| Now for soft words and glances— | |
| But where is Father Francis? | |
| |
| “Heed me, my sons, I pray, no more; | |
| I always sleep upon the floor.” | |
| Alas! for old wine’s chances; | 35 |
| A shutter for Father Francis! | |
| |
