Page:Lyrical Tales.djvu/115

 So, her dismay
 * Could not controul!

While the accuser, now grown bold, Thrice o'er, the tale of mischief told.

Now Jenkins from the table rose, "Who with the Parson toy'd?" he cried. "So, you must play, "And sport, your wanton hours away, "And with your gold, a pretty joke, "You thought to buy a pleasant cloak; "A screen to hide your shame—but know "I will not blind to ruin go.— "I am no modern Spouse, dy'e see, "Gold will not gild disgrace, with me!" Some say he seiz'd his fearful bride,
 * And came to blows!

Day after day, the contest dire Augmented, with resistless ire!