The Curate and His Bishop

On business call'd from his abode,
A Curate jogg'd along the road.
In patient leanness jogg'd his mare;
The Curate, jogging, breath'd a prayer;
And jogging as she fac'd the meads,
His maid, behind him, told her beads.

They hear a carriage; it o'ertakes 'em;
With grinding noise and dust it rakes 'em;
'Tis he himself! they know his port;
My Lord the Bishop, bound to court.
Beside him, to help meditation,
The lady sits, his young relation.

The carriage stops! the Curate doffs
His hat, and bows; the lady coughs:
The Prelate bends his lordly eyes,
And "How now, sir!" in wrath he cries;
"What! choose the very King's highway,
And ride with girls in open day!
Good heav'ns! what next will curates do?
My fancy shudders at the view.—
Girl, cover up your horrid stocking:
Was ever seen a group so shocking!"

"My Lord," replies the blushing man,
"Pardon me, pray, and pardon Anne;
Oh deem it, good my Lord, no sin:
I had no coach to put her in."