110
Beyond the dreams of avarice,
They lived their earthly Paradise,
Fawned on by flattery and servility—
These Christian preachers of humility!
Their Buddhist bowls for humble doles
And scourge of knotted thongs upon vent,
Being—for the outside of the convent.
Alas! in these lewd days of doubters
The inner walls are like the outers;
Stripped of their arras and intaglios,
The convents are no more seraglios,
And Fuchs by Papal spendthrifts dunned
Had scarce a kreutzer to refund:
No wonder, then, these “mingherlin” ants
Sell up, rack-rent and milk their tenants.
Sir Blasio’s landlord, we have seen,
Was one of those they squeezed most tightly,
Else had his lodgings never been
Let out to heretics so lightly;
And now, for harbouring two such tenants
He’s doubly dunned and pinched for penance.
Now if he’d happened to be in
When that sage worthy ran to earth,
He, doubtless, had condoned his sin
By casting the apostate forth.
’Tis always sweet to see a blazer rent,
Like Blazius, if he first prepays your rent.
Besides, he thus would curry favour
With those harsh landlords of the cowl.
Then, when that lank, fanatic shaver
Egged on the mob with voice and scowl.
“Burn down the house! Smoke out the stranger:”
