Through at both ends, wee could not finde an inne: Yet, for the church sake, turne and light wee must, Hoping to see one dramme of Wickliffs dust[89]; But wee found none: for underneath the pole Noe more rests of his body then his soule. Abused martyr! how hast thou bin torne By two wilde factions! First, the Papists burne Thy bones for hate; the Puritans, in zeale, They sell thy marble, and thy brasse they steale. A parson[90] mett us there, who had good store Of livings, some say, but of manners more; In whose streight chearefull age a man might see Well govern’d fortune, bounty wise and free. He was our guide to Leister, save one mile, There was his dwelling, where wee stay’d awhile, And dranke stale beere, I thinke was never new, Which the dun wench that brought it us did brew. And now wee are at Leister, where wee shall Leape ore six steeples, and one hospitall Twice told; but those great landmarkes I referr To Camdens eye, Englands chorographer. Let mee observe that almesmans heraldrye, Who being ask’d, what Henry that should be That was their founder, duke of Lancaster, Answer’d: Twas John of Gaunt, I assure you, sir; And so confuted all the walles, which sayd Henry of Grisemond this foundation layd. The next thing to be noted was our cheere, Enlarg’d, with seav’ne and sixpence bread and beere! But, oh you wretched tapsters as you are, Who reckon by our number, not your ware, And sett false figures for all companyes, Abusing innocent meales with oathes and lyes; Forbeare your coos’nage to Divines that come, Least they be thought to drinke up all your summe. Spare not the Laity in your reckoning thus, But sure your theft is scandalous to us. Away, my muse, from this base subject, know Thy Pegasus nere strooke his foote soe low. Is not th’ usurping Richard buryed here, That king of hate, and therefore slave of feare; Dragg’d from the fatall feild Bosworth, where hee Lost life, and, what he liv’d for,—cruelty? Search; find his name: but there is none. Oh kings! Remember whence your power and vastnesse springs; If not as Richard now, so shall you bee; Who hath no tombe, but scorne and memorye. And though that Woolsey from his store might save A pallace, or a colledge for his grave, Yet there he lyes interred as if all Of him to be remembred were his fall. Nothing but earth to earth, no pompeous waight Upon him, but a pibble or a quaite. If thou art thus neglected, what shall wee[91] Hope after death, who are but shreads of thee? Hold! William calls to horse; William is hee, Who, though he never saw threescore and three, Ore-reckons us in age, as he before In drink, and will baite nothing of foure score: And he commands, as if the warrant came From the great earle himselfe of Nottingham.