It tempts a man at first, yet strange to utter, When one comes neere, fogh gudds, it stinks of butter. Another tripping comes to her Mistris’s Pew, Where being arriv’d, she tryes if she can view Her young mans face, and straight heaves up her coats, That her sweet-heart may see her true-love knots. But having sate up late the night before To let the young-man in at the back-doore, She feeleth drowzinesse upon her creeping, Turnes downe one proofe, and then she falls a sleeping. Then fell her head one way, her book another, And surely she did dream by what we gather; [Sidenote: Maids beware of sleeping at Church.] For long she had not slept, when a rude flea Upon her groyn sharply began to prey; Straight she (twixt sleep and waking) in great ire, As if sh’ad sitting been by th’ Kitchin fire, Pulls up her coats with both hands, smock and all, And with both hands to scratch and scrub doth fall. Truly the Priest, though some did, saw her not, For he was praying and his eyes were shut. Alas had he seen as much as a by-stander, Much more from’s Text it would have made him wander. That’s call’d the Gallery, which (as you may see) Was trimm’d and gilt in the yeare Fifty three. 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 brasse, [Sidenote: Hang it.] Oh how he’s wonder’d at by many an asse That see him shake so fast his wartie fist, As if he’d write the Sermon ’fore the Priest Has spoke it; Then, O that I could (sayes one) Doe but as this man does, I’de give a crowne. Up goes another hand, up goe his eyes, And he, Gifts, Industrie, and Talents cryes.