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
