Yet once of late I made a call, which you may term a high call—
I went aloft to have a chat along with good St. Michael.
But soon the saint was called away, which closed our conversation,
To judge between some dames and monks engaged in disputation.
Paint was the subject of their strife, the rock on which they split;
Each party wanted to monopolise the use of it.
The monks declared, with many tears, that they were ruined quite,
For not an ounce of it was left to keep their pictures bright.
The ladies laid it on so thick, as you can understand,
That the compounders could not quite keep pace with their demand.