That if you’ve no money, your kissing won’t do;
Your Grace need not take empty pockets upstairs,
It is a long-purse that must manage affairs.
The saint then appear’d and the Bishop soon pray’d;
His vows—but not one of the house-bills—were paid.
She look’d up for more and she look’d down in vain,
For searching his small clothes, they nought did contain.
She wish’d to know how she should settle arrears,
“Good morrow,” said he, and thus managed affairs.
How sudden his exit—how wild was her look,