FATHER.
I wish she was!
She has plagued the parish long enough!
CURATE.
Shame farmer!
Is that the charity your bible teaches?
FATHER.
My bible does not teach me to love witches.
I know what's charity; who pays his tithes
And poor-rates readier?
CURATE.
Who can better do it?
You've been a prudent and industrious man,
And God has blest your labour.
FATHER.
Why, thank God Sir,
I've had no reason to complain of fortune.
CURATE.
Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish
Look up to you.
FATHER.
Perhaps Sir, I could tell
Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.
CURATE.
You can afford a little to the poor,
And then what's better still, you have the heart
To give from your abundance.
FATHER.
God forbid
I should want charity!
CURATE.
Oh! 'tis a comfort
To think at last of riches well employ'd!
I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth
Of a good deed at that most awful hour
When riches profit not.
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