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,