Had left the place - he only swore and smiled.
“But think, ye rectors and ye curates, think,
Who are your friends, and at their frailties wink;
Conceive not - mounted on your Sunday-throne,
Your firebrands fall upon your foes alone;
They strike your patrons - and should all withdraw,
In whom your wisdoms may discern a flaw,
You would the flower of all your audience lose,
And spend your crackers on their empty pews.
“The father dead, the son has found a wife,