“Here, in this homely cabinet, Resteth a poor old anchoret; Upon the ground he laid all weathers, Not as most men, goose-like, on feathers, For so indeed it came to pass, The Lord of lords his landlord was; He lived, instead of wainscot rooms, Like the possessed, among the tombs. As by some spirit thither led, To be acquainted with the dead: Each morning, from his bed so hallowed, He rose, took up his cross, and followed; To every porch he did repair, To vent himself in common prayer, Wherein he was alone devout, When _preaching_, _jostled_, _praying out_, In sad procession through the city, Maugre the devil or committee, He daily went, for which he fell Not into _Jacob’s_, but _Bridewell_, Where you might see his loyal back Red-lettered, like an almanack; Or I may rather else aver, Dominickt, like a calendar; And him triumphing at that harm, Having nought else to keep him warm. With Paul he always prayed, no wonder The lash did keep his flesh still under; Yet whip-cord seemed to lose its sting, When for the church, or for the king, High loyalty in such a death Could battle torments with mean earth; And though such sufferings he did pass, In spite of bonds, still _Freeman_ was. ’Tis well his pate was weather-proof; The palace like it had no roof; The hair was off, and ’twas the fashion, The _crown_ being _under sequestration_. Tho’ bald as time and mendicant, No fryer yet, but Protestant— His head each morning and each even Was watered with the dews of heaven. He lodged alike, dead and alive, As one that did his grave survive, For he is now, though he be dead, But in a manner put to bed, His cabin being above ground yet, Under a thin turf coverlet. Pity he in no porch did lay, Who did in porches so much pray; Yet let him have this Epitaph: Here sleeps poor Jacob, stone and staff.”