A Satyr Against Hypocrites

Juvenal. Sat. 1.

Si natura negat, facit indignatio versum.

Juvenal. Sat. 14.

----_Velocius & citius nos_---- Corrumpunt vitiorum exempla domestica, magnis Cum subeant animos autoribus.

Printed in the Year, 1655.

A Satyr against Hypocrites.

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; [Sidenote: 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; [Sidenote: 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, [Sidenote: 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, [Sidenote: _Robert Wisdome_’s delight.] [Illustration: 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 [Sidenote: 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, [Sidenote: 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, [Sidenote: _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, [Sidenote: 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, [Sidenote: To the Tune of _S. Margaret_s 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. [Sidenote: 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,] [Sidenote: _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. [Sidenote: 1 Use. Not like an anchor.]