Tedious have been our Fasts, and long our Prayers;
To keep the Sabbath such have been our cares,
That Cisly durst not milk the gentle Malls,
To the great dammage of my Lord Mayors Fooles,
Which made the greazie Catchpoles sweare and curse
The Holy-day for want o’th’ second course;
And men have lost their Body’s new adorning
Because their cloathes could not come home that morning.
The sins of Parlament have long been bawl’d at,
The vices of the City have been yawl’d at,
Yet no amendment; Certainly, thought I,
This is a Paradox beyond all cry.
Why if you ask the people, very proudly
They answer straight, That they are very godly.
Nor could we lawfully suspect the Priest,
Alas, for he cry’d out, I bring you Christ:
And trul’ he spoke with so much confidence,
That at that time it seem’d a good pretence:
Then where’s the fault? thought I: Well, I must know;
So putting on cleane cuffes, to Church I goe.
Now ’gan the Bells to jangle in the Steeple,
And in a row to Church went all the people.
First came poore Matrons stuck with Lice like Cloves,
Devoutly come to worship their white loaves,
And may be smelt above a German mile.
Well, let them goe to fume the Middle-Ile.
But here’s the sight that doth men good to see’t,
Grave Burghers, with their Posies, Sweet, sweet, sweet,
With their fat Wives. Then comes old Robin too,
Who although write or reade he neither doe,
Yet hath his Testament chain’d to his waste,
And his blind zeale feels out the proofs as fast,
And makes as greasie Dogs-ears as the best.
A new shav’d Cobler follows him, as it hapt,
With his young Cake bread in his cloak close wrapt;
Then panting comes his Wife from t’other end
O’th’ Town to hear Our Father and see a friend;
Then came the shops young Fore-man, ’tis presum’d,
With hair rose water’d, and his gloves perfum’d,
With his blew shoo-strings too, and besides that,
A riband with a sentence in his hat.
The Virgins too, the fair one, and the Gypsie,
Spectatum veniunt, veniunt spectentur ut ipsæ.
And now the silk’n Dames throng in, good store,
And casting up their noses, to th’ pew dore
They come, croud in, for though the pew be full
They must and will have room, I, that they wull;
Streight that she sits not uppermost distast
One takes; ’Tis fine that I must be displac’d
By you, she cries then, Good Mistris Gill Flurt;
Gill Flurt, enrag’d cries t’other, Why ya dirt-
-ie piece of Impudence, ye ill-bred Thief.
I scorn your terms, good Mistris Thimble-mans wife.
Marry come up, cries t’other, pray forbear,
Surely your husband’s but a Scavenger,
Cries t’other then, and what are you I pray?
No Aldermans wife for all you are so gay.
Is it not you that to all Christenings frisk it?
And to save bread, most shamefully steal the bisket,
At which the other mad beyond all law,
Unsheaths her talons, and prepares to claw.
And sure some gorgets had been torn that day,
But that the Readers voice did part the fray.
Now what a wardrobe could I put to view,
The cloak-bag-breeches, and the sleek-stone shoe,
The Gallimafry cloak that looks like nonsense,
Now wide, now narrow, like his Master’s conscience:
The grogram gown of such antiquity,
That Speed could never finde its pedigree;
Fit to be doted on by Antiquary’s,
Who hence may descant in their old Glossary’s,
What kinde of fardingale fair Helen wore,
How wings in fashion came, because wings bore
The Swan-transformed Leda to Jove’s lap,
Our Matrons hoping thence the same good hap;
The pent-house bever, and calves-chaudron ruff,
But of these frantick fashions now enough,
For now there shall no more of them be said,
Lest this my ware-house spoil the French-men’s trade.
And now as if I were that wollen-spinster,
That doth so gravely show you Sarum Minster,
He lead ye round the Church from pew to pew,
And shew you what doth most deserve your view,
There stood the Font, in times of Christianity,
But now ’tis tak’n down, men call it Vanity;
Ingredients that compound a Congregation.
There the Church-Wardens sit, hard by the dore,
But know ye why they sit among the Poor?
Because they love um well for love o’th’ box,
Their money buys good beef, good wine, good smocks.
There sits the Clerk, and there the reverend Reader,
And there’s the Pulpit for the good flock-Feeder,
Who in three lamentable dolefull ditty’s
Unto their marriage-fees sing Nunc dimittis.
Here sits a learned Justice, truly so
Some people say, and some again say no,
And yet methinks in this he seemeth wise
To make Stypone yeild him an excise,
And though on Sundaies, Ale-houses must down,
Yet wisely all the week lets them alone,
For well his Worship knows that Ale-house sins
Maintain himself in gloves, his wife in pins.
There sits the Major, as fat as any bacon
With eating custard, beef, and rumps of capon;
And there his corpulent Brethren sit by,
With faces representing gravity,
Who having money, though they have no wit,
They weare gold-chains, and here in green pews sit.
There sit True-blew the honest Parish-masters,
With Sattin Caps, and Ruffs, and Demi-casters,
And faith that’s all; for they have no rich fansies,
No Poets are, nor Authors of Romances.
There sits a Lady fine, painted by Art,
And there sits curious Mistris Fiddle-cum-fart:
There sits a Chamber-maid upon a Hassock,
Whom th’ Chaplain oft instructs without his Cassock:
One more accustom’d unto Curtain-sins,
Than to her thimble, or to handle pins.
O what a glosse her forehead smooth adorns!
Excelling Phœbe with her silver horns.
It tempts a man at first, yet strange to utter,
When one comes neere, fogh gudds, it stinks of butter.
Another tripping comes to her Mistris’s Pew,
Where being arriv’d, she tryes if she can view
Her young mans face, and straight heaves up her coats,
That her sweet-heart may see her true-love knots.
But having sate up late the night before
To let the young-man in at the back-doore,
She feeleth drowzinesse upon her creeping,
Turnes downe one proofe, and then she falls a sleeping.
Then fell her head one way, her book another,
And surely she did dream by what we gather;
Maids beware of sleeping at Church.
For long she had not slept, when a rude flea
Upon her groyn sharply began to prey;
Straight she (twixt sleep and waking) in great ire,
As if sh’ad sitting been by th’ Kitchin fire,
Pulls up her coats with both hands, smock and all,
And with both hands to scratch and scrub doth fall.
Truly the Priest, though some did, saw her not,
For he was praying and his eyes were shut.
Alas had he seen as much as a by-stander,
Much more from’s Text it would have made him wander.
That’s call’d the Gallery, which (as you may see)
Was trimm’d and gilt in the yeare Fifty three.
Twas a zealous work, and done by two Church-wardens,
Who for mis-reckoning hope to have their Pardons.
There Will writes Short-hand with a pen of brasse,
Hang it.
Oh how he’s wonder’d at by many an asse
That see him shake so fast his wartie fist,
As if he’d write the Sermon ’fore the Priest
Has spoke it; Then, O that I could (sayes one)
Doe but as this man does, I’de give a crowne.
Up goes another hand, up goe his eyes,
And he, Gifts, Industrie, and Talents cryes.
Thus are they plac’d at length: a tedious work.
And now a bellowing noise went round the Kirk,
From the low Font, up to the Golden Creed.
(O happy they who now no eares doe need!)
While these cough up their morning flegme, and those
Doe trumpet forth the snivel of their nose;
Straight then the Clerk began with potsheard voice
To grope a tune, singing with wofull noise,
Like a crackt Sans-bell jarring in the Steeple,
Tom Sternholds wretched Prick-song to the people:
Who soon as he hath pac’d the first line through,
Up steps Chuck-farthing then, and he reads too:
This is the womans boy that sits i’th’ Porch
Till th’ Sexton comes, and brings her stoole to Church.
Then out the people yaule an hundred parts,
Some roare, some whine, some creak like wheels of Carts,
Such Notes that Gamut never yet did know,
Nor numerous keys of Harpsicalls in a row
Their Heights and Depths could ever comprehend,
Now below double Ae some descend.
’Bove Ela squealing now ten notes some flie;
Straight then as if they knew they were too high,
With head-long haste downe staires againe they tumble;
Discords and Concords O how thick they jumble!
Like untam’d horses tearing with their throats
One wretched stave into an hundred notes.
Some lazie-throated fellowes thus did baule,
Robert Wisdome’s delight.
They a i hin a moy a meat uh ga have
a ha me uh a ha a gall a.
And some out-run their words and thus they say,
Too cruell for to think a hum a haw.
Now what a whetstone was it to devotion
To see the pace, the looks, and every motion
O’th Sunday Levite when up stairs he march’t,
And first beheld his little band stiff-starcht,
Two caps he had, and turns up that within,
You’d think he wore a black pot tipt with tin,
His cuffs asham’d peept only out at ’s wrist
For they saw whiter gloves upon his fist,
Out comes his kerchief then which he unfolds
As gravely as his Text, and fast he holds,
In’s wrath-denouncing hand; then mark when he pray’d
How he rear’d his reverend whites, and softly said
A long most Murcifull, or O Al——
Then out he whines the rest like a sad ditty,
In a most dolefull recitative style,
His buttocks keeping Crotchet-time the while;
And as he slubbers ore his tedious story
Makes it his chiefest aime his chiefest glory,
T’ excell the City Dames in speaking fine,
O for the drippings of an old Sir loyne,
Instead of Aron’s ointment for his face,
When he cries out for greace instead of grace.
Up stept another then, how sowre his face is!
How grim he lookt, for he was one oth’ Classis,
And here he cries, Blood, blood, blood, destroy, O Lord!
The Covenant-breaker with a two-edg’d sword.
Now comes another, of another strain,
And he of law and bondage doth complain:
Then shewing his broad teeth, and grinning wide,
Aloud, Free grace, free grace, free grace, he cry’d.
Up went a Chaplain then, fixing his eye
Devoutly on his Patron’s gallery,
Who as duty bindes him, cause he eats their pyes,
God blesse my good Lord and my Lady, cryes,
And’s hopefull Issue. Then with count’nance sad,
Up steps a man, stark revelation-mad,
And he, Cause us thy Saints, for thy dear sake,
That We a bustle in the World may make,
Thy enemies now rage, and by and by
He tears his throat for the fifth Monarchy.
Another mounts his chin, East, West, North, South,
Gaping to catch a blessing in his mouth,
And saying, Lord! We dare not ope our eyes
Before thee, winks for fear of telling lies.
Mean while the vulgar frie sit still, admiring
Practice of Piety.
Their pious sentences, as all inspiring;
At every period they sigh and grone,
Though he speak sometimes sense, and sometimes none:
Their zeal doth never let them minde that matter,
It is enough to hear the Magpye chatter;
They croud, they thrust, are crouded, and are thrusted,
Their pews seem pasties, wherein they incrusted,
Together bake and frie; O patience great!
Yet they endure, though almost drown’d in sweat,
Whose steaming vapours prove most singular
To stew hard doctrines in, and to prepare
Them, lest they should breed some ugly disease
Being tak’n raw in queasie consciences.
But further mark their great humility,
Their tender love and mutual charity,
The short man’s shoulder bore the tall man’s elbow,
Nor he so much as call’d him Scurvy fellow,
Wrath was forgot, all anger was forborn,
Although his neighbour trod upon his corn;
And in a word, all men were meek and humble,
Nor dar’d the Sexton, though unfeed, to grumble;
He honest man went with his neck a skew,
Gingling his bunch of keys from pew to pew;
Good man to ’s Market-day he bore no spleen,
But wish’d the seven dayes had Sabbaths been;
How he worships sattin, with what a Gospel-fear
He admires the man that doth a bever wear,
Room, room, bear leave, he cries, then not unwilling
With a Pater noster face receives the shilling.
But what was more religious than to see
The women in their strains of piety,
Who like the Seraphins in various hews
Adorn’d the Chancell and the highest pews.
But now good middle-Ile-folks all give room,
Hey-day!
See where the Mothers and the Daughters come!
Behinde the Servants looking all like Martyrs
With Bibles in plush jerkins and blew garters,
The silver-inkhorn and the writing book,
In which I wish no friend of mine to look.
Now must we not forget the Children too,
Who with their fore-tops gay stand up ith pew,
Alas-a-day! for there is great contention
To tie this lock who hath the best invention.
Well, be good children, for the time shall come,
When on the Pulpit-stairs ye shall have room,
There to be asked many a Question deep,
By th’ Parson, with his dinner, half a sleep.
But now aloft the Preacher ’gan to thunder,
When the poor women they sit trembling under,
Jack-a-Dandy!
And if he name Gehenna or the Dragon,
Their faith, alas! was little then to brag on;
Or if he did relate, how little wit
The foolish Virgins had, then doe they sit
Weeping with watry-eyes, and making vows
One to have Preachers alwaies in her house,
To dine them well, and breakfast um with gelly’s
And candles hot to warm their wambling belly’s,
And if the cash where she could not unlock it
Were close secur’d, to pick her husbands pocket:
Another something a more thrifty sinner
To invite the Parson twice a week to dinner;
The other vowes a purple Pulpit-cloth
With an embroider’d Cushion, being loth
When the fierce Priest his Doctrine hard unbuckles,
That in the passion he should hurt his knuckles:
Nay, in the Church-yard too was no small throng,
And on the window-barres in swarms they hung:
Nay, I could see that many Short-hand wrote,
Where listning well, I could not hear a jote;
Friend, this is strange, quoth I, but he reply’d,
Alas! your ears are yet unsanctify’d.
But Sermon’s done, and evening now approaches,
The people walk, for none dare go in coaches;
And as they go, God, Grace, and Ordinances,
To be heard of men.
Is all their chat, they seem in heav’nly trances;
Thus they trim up their souls with holy words,
Shaving off sin as men shave off their beards,
To grow the faster; sins, they cry, are fancies,
The Godly live above all Ordinances.
Now they’re at home, and have their suppers eat,
When Thomas, cries the Master, come repeat;
And if the windows gaze upon the street,
To sing a Psalm they hold it very meet.
But would you know what a preposterous zeal
They sing their Hymnes withall? then list’n well,
The Boy begins, Hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum,
To the Tune of S. Margarets Chimes.
Hum, hum, hum, hum, Thomas hum, hum,
Did you enter down the ten yards of water’d-tabby to the Lady in Covent garden?
Hum, hum, Yes Sir, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum.—
Pray remember to receive the hundred pound in Gracious-street to morrow.—
Hum hum hum.
Hum hum hum hum Mary, hum hum hum hum,
Anon forsooth.
Pray remember to rise betimes to morrow morning, you know you have a great many cloathes to sope, hum hum, hum hum, hum hum, &c.
Behold the zeal of the people.
But Sunday now good night, and now good morrow,
To thee oh Covenant Wednesday full of sorrow,
Alas! my Lady Anne wont now be merry,
She’s up betimes and gone to Alderman-bury,
Truly ’twas a sad day, for every sinner
Did feast a supper then, and not at dinner;
Nor men not women wash their face to day,
Put on their cloathes, and pisse, and so away;
They throng to Church just as they sell their ware,
In greasie hats, and old gowns worn thread-bare,
Where, though th’ whole body suffered tedious pain,
No member yet had more cause to complain
Than the poor nose, when little to its ease,
A Chandlers cloak perfum’d with candle-grease,
Commixing sents with a Sope-boylers breeches,
Did raise a stink beyond the skill of Witches.
Now steams of Garlick through the nostrils passage
Made thorough-faires, hell take their bold embassage,
With these mundungus and a breath that smells
Like standing-pools in subterraneall cells,
Compos’d Pomanders to out-stink the Devil,
Yet strange to tell, they suffer’d all this evil,
Nor to make water all the while would rise,
The women sure had spunges ’twixt their thighs:
To stir at this good time they thought was sin,
So strictly their devotion kept them in.
Now the Priest’s elbows doe the cushion knead,
While to the people he his Text doth read,
Beloved, I shall here crave leave to speak
A word, he cries and winks, unto the weak,
The words are these, Make haste and doe not tarry,
But unto Babylon thy dinner carry,
There doth young Daniel want in the Den,
Thrown among Lyons by hard-hearted men.
Here my Beloved, and then he reaches down
His hand, as if he’d catch the Clerk by th’ crown.
Not to explain this pretious Text amisse
Daniel’s the subject, Hunger th’ object is,
Which proves that Daniel was subject to hunger,
But that I mayn’t detain you any longer,
My brethren all prick up your ears, and put on
Your senses all, while I the words unbutton.
Make haste, I say, make haste and doe not tarry,]
The Exposition.
Why? my Beloved, these words great force doe carry.
Au! ’tis a waundrous emphaticall speech,
Some men Beloved, as if th’ had lead i’ their breech,
Doe walk, and some (as snails) doe creep as fast:
Truly, my Brethren, these men doe not make haste.
But be ye quick, dear Sisters, be ye quick,
And lest ye fall take hope, hope’s like a stick.
1 Use.
Not like an anchor.
To Babylon] Ah Babylon! that word’s a weighty one,
Truly ’twas a great City, and a mighty one.
Which as the learned Rider well records,
Babel battered.
Semiramis did build with brick and bords.
Wicked Semiramis, Oh how I stretch!
My spirit is mightily provok’d against that wretch.
Lustfull Semiramis, for well I wist
Thou wert the mother of proud Antichrist.
Nay, like to Levi and Simeon from antiquity,
The Pope and thee were sisters in iniquity.
Strumpet Semiramis, like her was non,
For she built Babylon, Ah! she built Babylon.
But, Brethren, be ye good as she was evil,
2 Use.
Must ye needs go because she’s gone to the Devil?
Thy dinner carry.] Here may we look upon
A childe of God in great affliction:
Why what does he’ aile? Alas! he wanteth meat,
Now what (Beloved) was sent him for to eat?
Truly a small matter; one a dish of pottage.
But pray what pottage? Such as a small cottage
Afforded onely to the Countrey swains,
From whence, though not a man the place explains,
’Tis guess’d that neither Christmas pottage ’twas,
Nor white-broth, nor cap’n-broth, good for sick maws,
Nor milk-porrage, or thick pease-porrage either,
Nor was it mutton-broth, nor veal-broth neither,
But sure some homely stuff crum’d with brown-bread,
And thus was Daniel, good Daniel fed.
Truly, this was but homely fare you’l say,
Would he have been so content?
Yet Daniel, good Daniel was content that day:
And though there could be thought on nothing cheaper,
Yet fed as well on’t as he had been a reaper.
3 Use.
Better eat any thing than not at all,
Fasting, Beloved, why? ’tis prejudiciall
To the weak Saints, Beloved ’tis a sin,
Several Reasons.
And thus to prove the same I will begin:
Hunger, Beloved, why? this hunger mauls,
Au! tis a great mauler, it breaks stone-walls,
Now my Beloved, to break stone-walls you know,
Why ’tis flat felony, and there’s great woe
Follows that sin, besides ’tis a great schisme,
’Tis ceremonious, ’tis Pagan Judisme.
Judisme! why beloved, have you ere been
Description of Antichrist.
Where the black Dog of New-gate you have seen?
Hair’d like a Turk, with eyes like Antichrist,
He doth and hath ye Brethren long entic’t.
Claws like a star-chamber bishop, black as hell,
And doubtlesse he was one of those that fell.
Judisme I say is uglier than this dog:
Truly & cætera’s not so foul a hog.
Thrown among Lyons by hard hearted men,]
Here Daniel is the Church, the world’s the Den.
By Lyons are meant Monarchs, Kings of Nations,
Those worse than heathenish abominations:
Truly dear friends, these Kings and Governours,
These Byshops too, nay all superiour powers,
Why they are Lyons, Locusts, Whales, I Whales, beloved,
Off goes our ears if once their wrath be moved;
But woe unto you Kings! woe to you Princes!
’Tis fifty and four, now Antichrist, so saies
My book, must reign three daies, and three half daies,
Why that is three years and a half beloved.
Or else as many precious men have proved
One thousand two hundred and threescore daies,
Why now the time’s almost expir’d, time staies
For no man; friends then Antichrist shall fall,
Then down with Rome, with Babel, down with all,
Down with the Devil, the Pope, the Emperour,
With Cardinals, and the King of Spaine’s great power;
And hey then up goe we.
They’l muster up, but I can tell you where,
At Armageddon, there, Beloved, there,
Fall on, fall on, kill, kill, alow, alow,
Kill Amaleck, and Turk, kill Gog and Magog too.
But who deare friends fed Daniel thus forsak’n
Truly (but there’s one sleeps, a would do well to awak’n.)
As ’tis in th’ English his name ends in Ock
And so his name is called Habacuck.
But in th’ originall it ends in Ock
The Doctrine of Generation.
For that deare sisters calls him have-a-Cock.
And truly I suppose I need not feare
But that there are many have a cocks here:
The Laud increase the number of have a cocks,
Truly false Prophets will arise in flocks;
But as a farding candle shut up quite
In a dark Lanthorn never giveth light;
Ev’n such are they. Ay but my brethren deare
For Ministers may be Cuckholds.
I am no such Lanthorn, for my horns are cleare.
But I shall now conclude this glorious truth
With an exhortation to old men and youth:
Use of Exhortation.
Be sure to feed young Daniel, that’s to say
Feed all your Ministers that Preach and pray.
Motives 1.
First, of all cause ’tis good, I speak that know so,
4.
Fourthly, cause ’tis no evill for to doe so.
3.
Thirdly, because ’tis very good, and twelfthly
12.
Cause there’s nought better, unlesse I my selfe lye.
But now he smells the pyes begin to reak,
Hunger a great enemy to Gospel duty.
His teeth water, and he can no longer speak:
And now it will not be amiss to tell ye
How he was troubled with a woman’s belly;
A crop-sick Sister.
For she was full of caudle and devotion,
Which in her stomach raised a commotion,
For the hot vapours much did damnifie,
The woman went to walk in Finsbury:
So though a while she was sustain’d with ginger,
Yet at the length a cruel paine did twinge her;
And like as marble sweats before a shower,
So did she sweate, and sweating forth did poure
Her mornings draught of Sugar sops and Saffron
Into her sighing neighbours cambrick apron.
At which a Lard she cry’d full sad to see
The foule mishap, yet sufferd patiently:
How doe you then she cry’d? I’me glad ’tis up:
Ah sick, sick, sick; cryes one, oh for a cup
Of my mint water that’s at home.
As patt as might be, then the Parson cry’d,
’Tis good; one holds her head, let’t come let’t come.
Still crying; just i’th’ nick, the Priest reply’d,
Yea like a streame you ought to let it flow,
And then she reach’d and once more let it goe.
Streight an old woman with a brace of chins,
A bunch of keys, and cushion for her pins,
Seeing in earnest, the good woman lack it
A very great Creature-comfort.
Drawes a strong water bottle from her placket;
Well heated with her flesh, she take’s a sup,
Then gives the sick, and bids her drink it up.
A great crie, and a little wooll.
But all in vain, her eyes begin to rowle,
She sighs, and all cry out, alas poore soule!
One then doth pinch her cheek, one pulls her nose
Some blest the opportunity that were her foes,
And they reveng’d themselves upon her face,
S. Dunstans Divell was ne’re in such a case.
Now Priest say what thou wilt, for here’s a chat
Begun of this great Empirick, and that
Renowned Doctor, what cures they have done:
I like not Mayern, he speaks French sayes one.
Oh sayes another, though the man be big,
For my part, I know none like Dr. Trig.
Nay, hold you there sayes t’other, on my life
There’s none like Chamberlain the man midwife.
Then in a heap, their own receipts they muster
To make this gelly, how to make that plaster,
Which when she heares, but that now fainting lay,
Up starteth she, and talkes as fast as they.
But they that did not mind this dolefull passion
Followed their businesse on another fashion,
For all did write, the Elder and the Novice,
Me thought the Church look’t like the six Clerks office.
But Sermon’s done, and all the folks as fast
As they can trudge, to Supper now make haste:
Downe comes the Priest, when a grave Brother meets him,
And putting off his narrow-brimm’d hat, thus greets him:
Deare Sir, my Wife and I doe you invite
A great sign of grace.
O’ th’ Creature with us to partake this night:
And now suppose what I prepare to tell ye,
The City-dame, whose faith is in the belly
Of her cramm’d Priest, had all her cares in order,
That Gracious-street, or Cheapside can afford her.
Loe first a Pudding! truly ’t had more Reasons
Bill of fare.
Than forty Sermons shew at forty seasons.
Then a Sur-loyne came in, as hot as fire,
Yet not so hot as was the Priests desire.
Next came a shoulder of Mutton rosted raw,
To be as utterly abolishe as the Law.
The next in order was a Capon plump,
With an Use of Consolation in his rump.
Then came a Turky cold, which in its life
Had a fine taile, just like the Citizens wife.
But now by’r leave, and worship too, for hark ye,
Here comes the Venson put in Paste by Starky:
Which once set downe, there at the little hole
Immediately in whips the Parsons soule.
He saw his Stomacks anchor, and believ’d
That now his belly should not be deceiv’d.
How he leanes ore the cheere toward his first mover!
While his hot zeale doth make his mouth run over.
This Pastie had Brethren too, like to the Mayor,
Three Christmas, or Minc’d pies, all very faire.
Methought they had this Motto Though they flirt us,
And preach us down, Sub pondere crescit virtus.
Apple tarts, Fooles, and strong cheese to keep downe
The steaming vapours from the Parsons crown.
Canary too, and Claret eke also,
Which made the tips of their eares and noses glow.
Up now they rise, and walk to their severall chairs,
When loe, the Priest uncovers both his eares.
Grace before meat.
Most gracious Shepherd of the Brethren all,
Thou saidst that we should eate, before the Fall;
Then was the world but simple, for they knew
Not either how to bake, or how to brew.
But happily we fell, and then the Vine
Did Noah plant, and all the Priests drank wine.
Truly we cannot but rejoyce to see
Thy gifts dispenc’d with such equality.
To us th’ast given wide throats, and teeth to eate;
To the women, knowledge how to dress our meat.
Make us devoutly constant in thy cup,
And grant us strength when we shall cease to sup,
To beare away thy creatures on our feet,
And not be seen to tumble in the street.
We are thy sheep, O let us feed, feed on,
Till we become as fat as any Brawne.
Then let’s fall to, and eate up all the cheer;
Straight So be it he cryes, and calls for beer.
Much good may doe you Sir.
Now then, like Scanderbeg he falls to work,
And hews the Pudding as he hew’d the Turk.
How he plough’d up the Beefe like Forrest-land,
And fum’d, because the bones his wrath withstand?
Upon the Mutton he fell not like a Lamb,
But rather like a Wolfe he tore the same.
At first a Sister helpt him, but this Elfe sir,
Wearying her out, she cryes, Pray help your self sir!
Upon the Pasty though he fell anon,
As if ’t had been the walls of Babylon.
Like a Cathedrall downe he throwes that stuffe,
Why, Sisters, saith he, I am pepper-proofe.
Then down he powres the Claret, and down again,
And would the French King were a Puritan
He cryes: swills up the Sack, and I’le be sworn
Christian forgivenesse.
Quoth he, Spaine’s King is not the Popes tenth horne.
By this his tearing hunger doth abate,
No Grace after meat.
And on the second course they ’gan to prate.
Then quoth Priscilla, Oh my brother deare:
Truly y’are welcome to this homely cheare,
And therefore eate, good brother, eate your fill,
Alas for Daniel, my heart aketh still.
Then quoth the Priest, Sister be of good heart;
But she reply’d good brother eate some Tart.
Rebecca then a member of the ’lection
Began to talk of brotherly affection;
For this, said she; as I have heard the wise
Discourse, consisteth much in exercise.
Yet I was foolish, and would oft resist,
But you had more grace, Brother, than to desist.
Streight he reply’d, there is a time for all things,
There is a time for great things and for small things,
There’s a time to eate, and drink, and reformation,
A time to empty, and for procreation.
Therefore deare Sister let us take our time,
There’s reason for’t, I never car’d for Rhyme.
Then truly answer’d she, tis a good motion,
And I embrace it with a warme devotion.
Nothing beyond ingratitude.
Why you know Brother you did never prove
That I was ere ingratefull for your love,
But sometimes Angels did attend your Purse,
At other times you know I did you nurse,
With many a secret dish of lusty meat,
And presently we went and did the feat.
Truly quoth Dorcas then, I saw a Vision,
That we should have our foes in great derision.
Quoth Martha straight (and then she shook the crums
From off her apron white, and pickt her gums)
So I doe hope, for so our Brother said;
O what a heavenly piece of work he made!
But I am ign’rant, and my memory short,
I shall forget, were I to be hang’d for’t.
Then quoth the Priest, The cheere that here we see,
Is but an Emblem of Mortality.
The Oxe is strong, and glories in his strength,
Yet him the Butcher knocks down, and at length
We eate him up. A Turkie’s very gay,
Like worldly people clad in fine array;
Yet on the Spit it looks most piteous,
And we devoure it, as the wormes eate us.
Then full of sawce and zeale up steps Elnathan,
[This was his name now, once he had another,
Untill the Ducking-pond made him a Brother]
A Deacon, and a Buffeter of Sathan.
A man may love his brother
Truly, quoth he, I know a Brother deare,
Would gladly pick the bones of what’s left here.
Nay he would gladly pick your pockets too
Of a small two-pence, or a groat, or so,
The sorry remnants of a broken shilling;
Therefore I pray you friends be not unwilling.
But as for me, tis more than I doe need,
To be charitable both in word and deed;
For as to us, the holy Scriptures say,
but
The Deacons must receive, the Lay-men pay.
Why Heathen folks that doe in Taverns stray,
Will never let their friends the reckning pay.
And therefore poure your charity into the bason,
Brethren and Sisters eke, your coats have lace on.
Why Brethren in the Lord, what need you care
For six pence? we’ll one houre enhance our ware.
Your six pence comes againe, nay there comes more;
Thus Charity’s th’ encreaser of your store.
Truly well spoke, then cry’d the Master-feaster,
Since you say so, here, you shall have my tester:
But for the women, they gave more liberally,
For they were sure to whom they gave, and why:
Not better than himselfe.
Then did Elnathan blinke, for he knew well
What he might give, and what he might conceale.
But now the Parson could no longer stay,
’Tis time to kiss, he cryes and so away.
At which the sisters, once th’ alarum tak’n,
Made such a din as would have serv’d to wak’n
A snoring brother, when he sleeps at Church;
With bagg and baggage then they gan to march;
And tickled with the thoughts of their delight,
One sister to the other bids Good night.
Good night quoth Dorcas to Priscilla, she,
Good night deare sister Dorcas unto thee.
In these goodly good nights much time was spent,
And was it not a holy complement?
At length in steps the Parson, on his breast
Christian Liberty.
Laying his hand. A happy night of rest
Reward thy labours sister: yet ere we part,
Feel in my lips the passion of my heart.
To another straight he turn’d his face, and kist her,
And then he cryes, All peace be with thee Sister.
To another in a godly tune he whines,
Nere a profane kisse among all these.
Deare Sister from thy lip Ile take my tines.
With that he kist, and whispers in her eare,
The time when it should be, and the place where.
Thus they all part, the Parson followes close,
For well the Parson knoweth where he goes.
This seem’d a golden time, the fall of sin,
You’d think the thousand years did now begin,
When Satan chain’d below should cease to roare,
Nor durst the wicked as they wont before
Come to the Church for pastime, nor durst laugh
To heare the non-plust Doctor faigne a cough.
The Devill himselfe, alas! now durst not stand
Within the switching of the Sextons wand,
For so a while the Priests did him pursue,
That he was faine to keep the Sabbath too,
Lest being taken in the Elders lure,
He should have paid his crown unto the poore;
And lest he should like a deceiver come
’Twixt the two Sundays inter stitium,
They stuft up Lecturers with texts and straw,
On working-dayes to keep the Devill in awe.
But strange to thinke, for all this solemn meeknesse,
At length the Devill appeared in his likenesse,
While these deceits did but supply the wants
Of broken unthrifts, and of thread-bare Saints.
Oh what will men not dare, if thus they dare
Be impudent to Heaven, and play with Prayer!
Play with that feare, with that religious awe
Which keeps men free, and yet is mans great law:
What can they but the worst of Atheists be,
Who while they word it ’gainst impiety,
Affront the throne of God with their false deeds,
Alas, this wonder in the Atheist breeds.
Are these the men that would the Age reforme,
That Down with Superstition cry, and swarme
This painted Glass, that Sculpture to deface,
But worship pride, and avarice in their place.
Religion they bawle out; yet know not what
Religion is, unlesse it be to prate.
Meeknesse they preach, but study to controule;
Mony they’d have, when they cry out the soule.
And angry, will not have Our Father said,
’Cause it prayes not enough for daily bread.
They meet in private, and cry Persecution,
When Faction is their end, and State-confusion,
These are the men that plague and over-run
Like Goths and Vandalls all Religion.
Every Mechanick either wanting stock
Or wit to keep his trade must have a flock.
The Spirit, cryes he, moveth me unto it,
And what the Spirit bids, must I not do it?
But having profited more than his flock by teaching,
And stept into authority by preaching
For a lay Office, leaves the Spirits motion
And straight retreateth from his first devotion.
But this he does in want, give him preferment,
Off goes his gowne, God’s call is no determent.
Vaine foolish people, how are ye deceiv’d?
How many severall sorts have ye receiv’d
Of things call’d truths, upon your backs lay’d on
Like saddles for themselves to ride upon?
They rid amaine, and hell and Satan drove,
While every Priest for his own profit strove.
Can they the age thus torture with their lyes,
Low’d bellowing to the world Impieties,
Black as their coates, and such a silent feare
Lock up the lips of men, and charme the eare?
Had that same holy Israelite bin dumb,
That fatall day of old had never come
To Baals Tribe, and thrice unhappy age
While zeale and piety like mask’d in rage
And vulgar ignorance. How we doe wonder
Once hearing, that the heavens were fir’d to thunder
Against assailing Gyants, surely men,
Men thought could not presume such violence then:
But ’twas no Fable, or if then it were,
Behold a sort of bolder mortals here,
Those undermining shifts of knavish folly,
Using alike to God and men most holy;
Infidels who now seem to have found out
A suttler way to bring their ends about.
Against the Deity then op’nly to fight
By smooth insinuation and by flight:
They close with God, seem to obey his Lawes,
They cry alowd for him and for his cause.
But while they doe their strict injunctions preach,
Deny in actions what their words doe teach.
O what will men not dare, if thus they dare
Be impudent with Heaven, and play with Prayer!
Yet if they can no better teach than thus,
Would they would onely teach themselves, not us:
So while they still on empty out-sides dwell,
They may perhaps be choakt with husk and shell:
While those, who can their follies well refute,
By a true knowledge, doe obtaine the fruit.
