Implies a most sad destitution of charity.
That all sisters are doves—without mates—of one feather,
In holy tranquillity living together,
Whose dovecote the bigots have found a mare's nest in,
Because its arrangements are rather clandestine.
Nay, I should have gone, out of hand, to Sir Paxton,
As a Frenchman would probably call him, and "axed 'un,"
As countrymen say—his ingenious noddle
Of a New Crystal Convent to scratch for a model.
Transparent and open, inquiry not shirking,