So Luther thought the Pater-nofter long, When doom'd to fay his beads and Even-fong; But having caft his cowl, and left those laws, Adds to Chrift's prayer, the Power and Glory claufe. The lands are bought; but where are to be found Those ancient woods, that shaded all the ground? 110 We fee no new-built palaces afpire,
No kitchens emulate the vestal fire.
Where are those troops of Poor, that throng'd of yore The good old landlord's hospitable door? Well, I could wish, that still in lordly domes
Some beasts were kill'd, though not whole hecatombs; That both extremes were banish'd from their walls, Carthufian fafts, and fulfome Bacchanals; And all mankind might that just Mean observe, In which none e'er could furfeit, none could starve.
Each day his Beads: but having left thofe laws, Adds to Chrift's prayer, the power and glory claufe) But when he fells or changes land, h' impaires The writings, and (unwatch'd) leaves out, fes beires, As flily as any Commentator goes by
Hard words, or fenfe; or, in Divinity
As controverters in vouch'd Texts, leave out
Shrewd words, which might against them clear the doub Where are thefe fpread woods which cloath'd here
Those bought lands? not built, nor burnt within door. Where the old landlords troops and almes? In halls Carthufian Fafts, and fulfome Bachanals
These as good works, 'tis true, we all allow, But oh! thefe works are not in fashion now: Like rich old wardrobes, things extremely rare, Extremely fine, but what no man will wear.
Thus much I've said, I trust, without offence; Let no Court Sycophant pervert my sense, Nor fly Informer watch these words to draw Within the reach of Treafon, or the Law.
Equally I hate. Means bleft. In rich men's homes I bid kill fome beafts, but no hecatombs ;
None starve, none furfeit so. But (oh) we allow Good works as good, but out of fashion now, Like old rich wardrobes. But my words none draws Within the vast reach of th' huge ftatutes jawes.
WELL, if it be my time to quit the stage,
Adieu to all the follies of the age!
I die in charity with fool and knave, Secure of peace at least beyond the grave, I've had my Purgatory here betimes, And paid for all my fatires, all my rhymes. The Poet's hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames, To this were trifles, toys, and empty names.
With foolish pride my heart was never fir'd, Nor the vain itch t' admire, or be admir'd; I hop'd for no commiffion from his Grace; I bought no benefice, I begg'd no place; Had no new verses, nor new fuit to show; Yet went to Court!-the Devil would have it fo.
ELL; I may now receive, and die. My fin Indeed is great, but yet I have been in
A Purgatory, fuch as fear'd Hell is
A recreation, and scant map of this.
My mind, neither with pride's itch, nor hath been Poyfon'd with love to fee or to be seen,
I had no fuit there, nor new fuit to show,
Yet went to Court; but as Glare which did go
But, as the Fool that in reforming days Would go to Mass in jeft (as story fays) Could not but think, to pay his fine was odd, Since 'twas no form'd design of ferving God; So was I punish'd, as if full as proud, As prone to ill, as negligent of good, As deep in debt, without a thought to pay, As vain, as idle, and as falfe, as they Who live at Court, for going once that way! Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold! there came A thing which Adam had been pos'd to name; Noah had refus'd it lodging in his Ark, Where all the Race of Reptiles might embark: A verier monfter, than on Afric's fhore The sun e'er got, or flimy Nilus bore,
To Mafs in jeft, catch'd, was fain to disburse Two hundred markes which is the Statutes curfe, Before he fcap'd; fo it pleas'd my destiny (Guilty of my fin of going) to think me As prone to all ill, and of good as forget- ful, as proud, luftfull, and as much in debt, As vain, as witlefs, and as falfe, as they Which dwell in Court, for once going that way.
Therefore I fuffer'd this; towards me did run A thing more ftrange, than on Nile's flime the Sun E'er bred, or all which into Noah's Ark came; A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name:
Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous fhelves contain, Nay, all that lying Travellers can feign.
The watch would hardly let him pass at noon, At night would fwear him dropt out of the Moon. One, whom the mob, when next we find or make A popish plot, fhall for a Jefuit take, And the wife Justice starting from his chair Cry, By your Priesthood tell me what you are? Such was the wight: Th' apparel on his back, Though coarfe, was reverend, and tho' bare, was black: The fuit, if by the fashion one might guess, Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Befs,
But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd;
So Time, that changes all things, had ordain'd!
Stranger than seven Antiquaries ftudies, Than Africk Monsters, Guianaes rarities, Stranger than strangers: one who, for a Dane, In the Danes Maffacre had fure been flain, If he had liv'd then; and without help dies, When next the Prentices 'gainst strangers rife ; One, whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by; One, to whom the examining Juftice fure would cry, Sir, by your Priesthood, tell me what you are?
His cloaths were strange, though coarse, and black, though bare,
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
Velvet, but 'twas now (fo much ground was seen) Become Tufftaffaty; and our children shall
See it plain rash a while, then nought at all,
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