"
Thus saying, post-haste to earth he hurries,
And knocks at the Archbishop of Canterbury's.
The door was oped by a lackey in lace,
Saying, "What's your business with his Grace?"
"His Grace!" quoth Jerome--for posed was he,
Not knowing what _sort_ this Grace could be;
Whether Grace _preventing_, Grace _particular_,
Grace of that breed called _Quinquarticular_--[1]
In short he rummaged his holy mind
The exact description of Grace to find,
Which thus could represented be
By a footman in full livery.
At last, out loud in a laugh he broke,
(For dearly the good saint loved his joke)[2]
And said--surveying, as sly he spoke,
The costly palace from roof to base--
"Well, it isn't, at least, a _saving_ Grace!"
"Umph!" said the lackey, a man of few words,
"The Archbishop is gone to the House of Lords."
"To the House of the Lord, you mean, my son,
"For in _my_ time at least there was but one;
Unless such many-_fold_ priests as these
"Seek, even in their LORD, pluralities!"[3]
"No time for gab," quoth the man in lace:
Then slamming the door in St. Jerome's face
With a curse to the single knockers all
Went to finish his port in the servants' hall,
And propose a toast (humanely meant
To include even Curates in its extent)
"To all as _serves_ the Establishment.
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