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FATHER.
Why, thank God Sir,
I've had no reason to complain of fortune.
CURATE.
Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish
Look up to you.
FATHER.
Perhaps Sir, I could tell
Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.
CURATE.
You can afford a little to the poor,
And then what's better still, you have the heart
To give from your abundance.
FATHER.
God forbid
I should want charity!
CURATE.
Oh! 'tis a comfort
To think at last of riches well employ'd!
I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth
Why, thank God Sir,
I've had no reason to complain of fortune.
CURATE.
Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish
Look up to you.
FATHER.
Perhaps Sir, I could tell
Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.
CURATE.
You can afford a little to the poor,
And then what's better still, you have the heart
To give from your abundance.
FATHER.
God forbid
I should want charity!
CURATE.
Oh! 'tis a comfort
To think at last of riches well employ'd!
I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth
