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The Carle not rude of speech, but like ˄ [[addition]] the [[/addition]] Tenant Of some night haunted ruin, bore an aspect Of horror borne to habitude: he bade God bless me, and past on; I urg'd him further; Good master, cried he, go not to the Castle There sorrow ever dwells, and moping misery. I prest him yet.—None, there, said he, ˄ [[addition]] are [[/addition]] welcome, But now, and then, a Mass Preist, and the poor, To whom the pious Countess deals her alms On covenant that each revolving night They beg of heaven, the health of her son's Soul And of her own; But often as returns, The twentieth of September they are bound Fast from the midnight watch to pray till morn. More would he not disclose, or knew not more. What precious mummery! Her Son in exile, She wastes on Monks and beggars ˄ [[addition]] his [[/addition]] inheritance For his Soul's health! I never knew a Woman But lov'd our bodies, or our Souls too well. Each Master whim maintains its hour ˄ [[addition]] of [[/addition]] empire
