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,