Thus are they plac’d at length: a tedious work. And now a bellowing noise went round the Kirk, From the low Font, up to the Golden Creed. (O happy they who now no eares doe need!) While these cough up their morning flegme, and those Doe trumpet forth the snivel of their nose; Straight then the Clerk began with potsheard voice To grope a tune, singing with wofull noise, Like a crackt Sans-bell jarring in the Steeple, _Tom Sternholds_ wretched Prick-song to the people: Who soon as he hath pac’d the first line through, Up steps _Chuck-farthing_ then, and he reads too: This is the womans boy that sits i’th’ Porch Till th’ Sexton comes, and brings her stoole to Church. Then out the people yaule an hundred parts, Some roare, some whine, some creak like wheels of Carts, Such Notes that _Gamut_ never yet did know, Nor numerous keys of Harpsicalls in a row Their Heights and Depths could ever comprehend, Now below double _Ae_ some descend. ’Bove _Ela_ squealing now ten notes some flie; Straight then as if they knew they were too high, With head-long haste downe staires againe they tumble; Discords and Concords O how thick they jumble! Like untam’d horses tearing with their throats One wretched stave into an hundred notes. Some lazie-throated fellowes thus did baule, [Sidenote: _Robert Wisdome_’s delight.] [Illustration: They a i hin a moy a meat uh ga have a ha me uh a ha a gall a. And some out-run their words and thus they say, Too cruell for to think a hum a haw.]