And fancy’d she had got some vile romance;
Knock’d at the cell, and found her daughter there,
With not a book—unless a book of pray’r;
She wonder’d much, and told the virgin so,
Who did not hide the truth, but let her know.
Amaz’d the matron lifted up her eyes,
And shew’d her horror by her vast surprize.
‘O! shame to all that’s pious and that’s good,
‘What wild-fire’s this which rages in your blood;
‘’Tis, sure, dictated by some imp of Hell!