Now what a whetstone was it to devotion To see the pace, the looks, and every motion O’th Sunday Levite when up stairs he march’t, And first beheld his little band stiff-starcht, Two caps he had, and turns up that within, You’d think he wore a black pot tipt with tin, His cuffs asham’d peept only out at ’s wrist For they saw whiter gloves upon his fist, Out comes his kerchief then which he unfolds As gravely as his Text, and fast he holds, In’s wrath-denouncing hand; then mark when he pray’d How he rear’d his reverend whites, and softly said A long _most Murcifull_, or _O Al_---- Then out he whines the rest like a sad ditty, In a most dolefull _recitative style_, His buttocks keeping Crotchet-time the while; And as he slubbers ore his tedious story Makes it his chiefest aime his chiefest glory, T’ excell the City Dames in speaking fine, O for the drippings of an old Sir loyne, Instead of _Aron_’s ointment for his face, When he cries out for _greace_ instead of _grace_. Up stept another then, how sowre his face is! How grim he lookt, for he was one oth’ _Classis_, And here he cries, _Blood, blood, blood, destroy, O Lord!_ _The Covenant-breaker with a two-edg’d sword._ Now comes another, of another strain, And he of law and bondage doth complain: Then shewing his broad teeth, and grinning wide, Aloud, _Free grace, free grace, free grace_, he cry’d. Up went a Chaplain then, fixing his eye Devoutly on his Patron’s gallery, Who as duty bindes him, cause he eats their pyes, _God blesse my good Lord and my Lady_, cryes, _And’s hopefull Issue_. Then with count’nance sad, Up steps a man, stark revelation-mad, And he, _Cause us thy Saints, for thy dear sake_, _That We a bustle in the World may make_, _Thy enemies now rage_, and by and by He tears his throat for the _fifth Monarchy_. Another mounts his chin, East, West, North, South, Gaping to catch a blessing in his mouth, And saying, _Lord! We dare not ope our eyes_ _Before thee_, winks for fear of telling lies. Mean while the vulgar frie sit still, admiring [Sidenote: Practice of Piety.] Their pious sentences, as all inspiring; At every period they sigh and grone, Though he speak sometimes sense, and sometimes none: Their zeal doth never let them minde that matter, It is enough to hear the Magpye chatter; They croud, they thrust, are crouded, and are thrusted, Their pews seem pasties, wherein they incrusted, Together bake and frie; O patience great! Yet they endure, though almost drown’d in sweat, Whose steaming vapours prove most singular To stew hard doctrines in, and to prepare Them, lest they should breed some ugly disease Being tak’n raw in queasie consciences. But further mark their great humility,