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قراءة كتاب A Satyr Against Hypocrites
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 3
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.