In brief, I don't stick To declare Father Dick— So they call'd him, "for short"—was a "Regular Brick," A metaphor taken—I have not the page aright— Out of an ethical work by the Stagyrite.
Now Nature, 'tis said, Is a comical jade, And among the fantastical tricks she has play'd, Was the making our good Father Richard a Brother, As like him in form as one pea's like another;
He was tall and upright, About six feet in height, His complexion was what you'd denominate light, And, though he had not shorn his ringlets of brown, He'd a little bald patch on the top of his crown.
He'd a bright sparkling eye Of the hazel, hard by Rose a finely-arch'd sourcil of similar dye; He'd a small, well-shaped mouth, with a Cupidon lip, And a good Roman nose, rather red at the tip.
But here, it's pretended, The parallel ended; In fact, there's no doubt his life might have been mended, And people who spoke of the Prior with delight, Shook their heads if you mention'd his brother, the Knight.
If you'd credit report, There was nothing but sport, And High Jinks going on night and day at "the Court," Where Sir Robert, instead of devotion and charity, Spent all his time in unseemly hilarity.
He drinks and he eats Of choice liquors and meats, And he goes out on We'n'sdays and Fridays to treats, Gets tipsy whenever he dines or he sups, And is wont to come quarrelsome home in his cups.
No Paters, no Aves; An absolute slave he's To tarts, pickled salmon, and sauces, and gravies; While as to his beads—what a shame in a Knight!— He really don't know the wrong end from the right!
So, though 'twas own'd then By nine people in ten, That "Robert and Richard were two pretty men," Yet there the praise ceased, or, at least the good Priest Was consider'd the "Beauty," Sir Robert the "Beast."
Indeed, I'm afraid More might have been laid To the charge of the Knight than was openly said, For then we'd no "Phiz's," no "H. B.'s," nor "Leeches," To call Roberts "Bobs," and illustrate their speeches.