  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 Phoebe with her silver horns. It tempts a man at first, yet strange to utter,
e">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 hand 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. |
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