At which the other mad beyond all law, Unsheaths her talons, and prepares to claw. And sure some gorgets had been torn that day, But that the Readers voice did part the fray. Now what a wardrobe could I put to view, The cloak-bag-breeches, and the sleek-stone shoe, The Gallimafry cloak that looks like nonsense, Now wide, now narrow, like his Master’s conscience: The grogram gown of such antiquity, That _Speed_ could never finde its pedigree; Fit to be doted on by Antiquary’s, Who hence may descant in their old Glossary’s, What kinde of fardingale fair _Helen_ wore, How wings in fashion came, because wings bore The Swan-transformed _Leda_ to _Jove_’s lap, Our Matrons hoping thence the same good hap; The pent-house bever, and calves-chaudron ruff, But of these frantick fashions now enough, For now there shall no more of them be said, Lest this my ware-house spoil the French-men’s trade. And now as if I were that wollen-spinster, That doth so gravely show you _Sarum_ Minster, He lead ye round the Church from pew to pew, And shew you what doth most deserve your view, There stood the Font, in times of Christianity, But now ’tis tak’n down, men call it Vanity; [Sidenote: Ingredients that compound a Congregation.] There the Church-Wardens sit, hard by the dore, But know ye why they sit among the Poor? Because they love um well for love o’th’ box, Their money buys good beef, good wine, good smocks. There sits the Clerk, and there the reverend Reader, And there’s the Pulpit for the good flock-Feeder, Who in three lamentable dolefull ditty’s Unto their marriage-fees sing _Nunc dimittis_. Here sits a learned Justice, truly so Some people say, and some again say no, And yet methinks in this he seemeth wise To make _Stypone_ yeild him an excise, And though on Sundaies, 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 Major, 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 weare 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 fine, painted 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 to her thimble, or to handle pins. O what a glosse her forehead smooth adorns! Excelling _Phœbe_ with her silver horns.