O noble army of the sainted host,
Take pity on our doleful plight;
Our cousin, our illustrious boast,
From life, alas, has taken flight.
Expence we grudge not; cheerfully we'll pay
For priests, monks, and nuns, in costly array:
Yea, one hundred crowns we'll freely devote
If thereby exemption may surely be bought
From purgatory, that dread scourge,
With which our frightened souls they urge.[856]
[856] Kein kosten soll uns dauern dran,
Wo wir Mönch und Priester mögen ha'n,
Und sollt'es kosten hundert kronen....
(Bern. Mausol., iv, Wirz, K. Gesch., i, p. 383.)
The SACRISTAN, breaking off from the band surrounding the pope, and
running hastily to CURATE ROBERT EVER-MORE--
Something to drink, Master Curate, I crave;
A farmer of note now goes to his grave.