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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 brass,
Oh how he's wonder'd at by many an asse
That see him shake so fast his warry fist,Hang it.
As if he'd write the Sermon 'fore the Priest
Has spoke it; Then, O that I could (sayes one)
Do as but this man does, I'de give a crown.
Up goes another hand, up go his eyes,
And he, Gifts, Industry, and talents cries.
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 do need:)
VVhile these cought up their morning flegm, and those.
Do 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 plac'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 stool to Church.
Then out the people yaule an hundred parts,
Some roar, some whine, some creek 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 Are some descend,
'Bove Ela squealing now ten notes some flie;
Straight then as if they knew they were too high,
With head-long haste down staires again 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
