A Satire Anthology. Wells Carolyn

      And then the priest of whom I’ve told

      Was mentioned – how he loved his gold.

      And, because men do often use

      More freedom than the truth would choose,

      They gave him wealth, and wealth so much,

      As those like him could scarcely touch.

      “And then, besides, a thing he’s done

      By which great profit might be won,

      Could it be only spoken here.”

      Quoth the bishop, “Tell it without fear.”

      “He’s worse, my lord, than Bedouin,

      Because his own dead ass, Baldwin,

      He buried in the sacred ground.”

      “If this is truth, as shall be found,”

      The bishop cried, “a forfeit high

      Will on his worldly riches lie.

      Summon this wicked priest to me;

      I will myself in this case be

      The judge. If Robert’s word be true,

      Mine are the fine, and forfeit too.”

      “Disloyal! God’s enemy and mine,

      Prepare to pay a heavy fine.

      Thy ass thou buriest in the place

      Sacred by church. Now, by God’s grace,

      I never heard of crime more great.

      What! Christian men with asses wait!

      Now, if this thing be proven, know

      Surely to prison thou wilt go.”

      “Sir,” said the priest, “thy patience grant;

      A short delay is all I want.

      Not that I fear to answer now,

      But give me what the laws allow.”

      And so the bishop leaves the priest,

      Who does not feel as if at feast;

      But still, because one friend remains,

      He trembles not at prison pains.

      His purse it is which never fails

      For tax or forfeit, fine or vails.

      The term arrived, the priest appeared,

      And met the bishop, nothing feared;

      For ’neath his girdle safe there hung

      A leathern purse, well stocked and strung

      With twenty pieces fresh and bright,

      Good money all, none clipped or light.

      “Priest,” said the bishop, “if thou have

      Answer to give to charge so grave,

      ’Tis now the time.”

      “Sir, grant me leave

      My answer secretly to give.

      Let me confess to you alone,

      And, if needs be, my sins atone.”

      The bishop bent his head to hear;

      The priest he whispered in his ear:

      “Sir, spare a tedious tale to tell.

      My poor ass served me long and well.

      For twenty years my faithful slave;

      Each year his work a saving gave

      Of twenty sous, so that, in all,

      To twenty livres the sum will fall;

      And, for the safety of his soul,

      To you, my lord, he left the whole.”

      “’Twas rightly done,” the bishop said.

      And gravely shook his godly head;

      “And that his soul to heaven may go,

      My absolution I bestow.”

      Now have you heard a truthful lay,

      How with rich priests the bishops play;

      And Rutebœuf the moral draws

      That, spite of kings’ and bishops’ laws,

      No evil times has he to dread

      Who still has silver at his need.