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Who hear the night-blast rock their walls, and think The head to them most dear may be unshelter'd, Thou couldst not be so cruel (Turning round.) Who 'twitch'd my robe?

It was our holy Hermit, Who press'd, ev'n now, its border to his lips, Then shrunk aside.

But how is this? He hurries fast away.

He is a bashful man, whose hooded face On woman never looks.

Has he some vow upon him?

'T is like he may; but he will pray for you.

And good men's prayers prevail, I do believe.

Ay, Madam, all the peasants round, I trow, Set by his prayers great store. Ev'n mothers leave The very cradles of their dying infants To beg them. Wives, whose husbands are at sea,