With (much good do’t him) reverence. The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular; Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone Which boys and bruckelled children call (Playing for points and pins) cockall. Whose linen drapery is a thin, Subtile, and ductile codlin’s skin: Which o’er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damaskëd. The fringe that circumbinds it, too, Is spangle work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show, Like frost-work glitt’ring on the snow. Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for shew-bread, and at hand (Just in the middle of the altar) Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter, Graced with the trout-fly’s curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings. Now, we must know, the elves are led Right by the Rubric, which they read: And if report of them be true, They have their text for what they do, Ay, and their book of canons too. And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells, They have their Book of Articles: And if that Fairy Knight not lies, They have their Book of Homilies; And other Scriptures, that design A short, but righteous discipline. The basin stands the board upon To take the Free Oblatïon, A little pin-dust, which they hold More precious than we prize our gold; Which charity they give to many Poor of the parish, if there’s any. Upon the ends of these neat rails, Hatched with the silver-light of snails, The elves, in formal manner, fix Two pure and holy candlesticks, In either which a small tall bent Burns for the altar’s ornament. For sanctity, they have, to these, Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by In their religious vestery. They have their ash-pans and their brooms, To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling mass-priests here, And many a dapper chorister. Their ushering vergers, here likewise, Their canons and their chanteries: Of cloister monks they have enow, Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too. And if their legend do not lie, They much affect the Papacy; And since the last is dead, there’s hope Elve Boniface shall next be Pope. They have their cups and chalices, Their pardons and indulgences; Their beads of nuts, bells, books, and wax, Candles, forsooth, and other knacks; Their holy oil, their fasting spittle, Their sacred salt here, not a little. Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones, Besides their fumigatīons, To drive the devil from the cod-piece Of the friar, of work an odd piece, Many a trifle, too, and trinket, And for what use, scarce man would think it. Next then, upon the chanter’s side An apple’s core is hung up dried, With rattling kernels, which is rung To call to morn and even song. The saint, to which the most he prays And offers incense nights and days, The lady of the lobster is, Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss,