Bright eyes, straw hats, bottines that fit amazingly,
A croquet-bout is planned by all the girls,
And he, consenting, speaks of croquet praisingly;
But suddenly declines to play at all in it—
The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it!
Next, when at quiet seaside village, freed
From cares episcopal and ties monarchical,
He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,
In manner anything but hierarchical—
He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it—