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And though on Sundayes 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 Mayor 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 wear 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, painted fine 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 woman is to wet her thumb, that spins.
O what a gloss her forehead smooth adorns!
Excelling Phœbe with her silver horns.
It tempts a man at first, yet strange to utter,
When one comes near, 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-dore.
She feeleth drawziness upon her creeping,
Turns down one proof, and then she falls a sleeping.
Then fell her head one way, her book another,
And she sleeps, and snores, a little a tone with t'other.
That's call'd the Gallery; which (as you may see)
Was trimm'd and guilt in the year Fifty three.
Twas
