The time when it should be, and the place where. Thus they all part, the Parson followes close, For well the Parson knoweth where he goes. This seem’d a golden time, the fall of sin, You’d think the thousand years did now begin, When Satan chain’d below should cease to roare, Nor durst the wicked as they wont before Come to the Church for pastime, nor durst laugh To heare the non-plust Doctor faigne a cough. The Devill himselfe, alas! now durst not stand Within the switching of the Sextons wand, For so a while the Priests did him pursue, That he was faine to keep the Sabbath too, Lest being taken in the Elders lure, He should have paid his crown unto the poore; And lest he should like a deceiver come ’Twixt the two Sundays _inter stitium_, They stuft up Lecturers with texts and straw, On working-dayes to keep the Devill in awe. But strange to thinke, for all this solemn meeknesse, At length the Devill appeared in his likenesse, While these deceits did but supply the wants Of broken unthrifts, and of thread-bare Saints. Oh what will men not dare, if thus they dare Be impudent to Heaven, and play with Prayer! Play with that feare, with that religious awe Which keeps men free, and yet is mans great law: What can they but the worst of Atheists be, Who while they word it ’gainst impiety, Affront the throne of God with their false deeds, Alas, this wonder in the Atheist breeds. Are these the men that would the Age reforme, That Down with Superstition cry, and swarme This painted Glass, that Sculpture to deface, But worship pride, and avarice in their place. Religion they bawle out; yet know not what Religion is, unlesse it be to prate. Meeknesse they preach, but study to controule; Mony they’d have, when they cry out the soule. And angry, will not have Our Father said, ’Cause it prayes not enough for daily bread. They meet in private, and cry Persecution, When Faction is their end, and State-confusion, These are the men that plague and over-run Like Goths and Vandalls all Religion. Every _Mechanick_ either wanting stock Or wit to keep his trade must have a flock. The Spirit, cryes he, moveth me unto it, And what the Spirit bids, must I not do it? But having profited more than his flock by teaching, And stept into authority by preaching For a lay Office, leaves the Spirits motion And straight retreateth from his first devotion. But this he does in want, give him preferment, Off goes his gowne, God’s call is no determent. Vaine foolish people, how are ye deceiv’d? How many severall sorts have ye receiv’d Of things call’d truths, upon your backs lay’d on Like saddles for themselves to ride upon? They rid amaine, and hell and _Satan_ drove, While every Priest for his own profit strove.