Above the hill there blew a gentle breath, Yet now we see a gentler gale beneath. The phrase and wellcome of this knight did make The seat more elegant; every word he spake Was wine and musick, which he did expose To us, if all our art could censure those. With him there was a prelate[110], by his place Arch-deacon to the byshopp, by his face A greater man; for that did counterfeit Lord abbot of some covent standing yet, A corpulent relique: marry and tis sinne Some Puritan gets not his face call’d in; Amongst leane brethren it may scandall bring, Who seeke for parity in every thing. For us, let him enjoy all that God sends, Plenty of flesh, of livings, and of freinds. Imagine here us ambling downe the street, Circling in Flower, making both ends meet: Where wee fare well foure dayes, and did complain, Like harvest folkes, of weather and the raine: And on the feast of Barthol’mew wee try What revells that saint keepes at Banbury[111]. In th’ name of God, Amen! First to begin, The altar was translated to an inne; Wee lodged in a chappell by the signe, But in a banquerupt taverne by the wine: Besides, our horses usage made us thinke Twas still a church, for they in coffins drinke[112]; As if twere congruous that the ancients lye Close by those alters in whose faith they dye. Now yee beleeve the Church hath good varietye Of monuments, when inns have such satiety; But nothing lesse: ther’s no inscription there, But the church-wardens names of the last yeare: Instead of saints in windowes and on walls, Here bucketts hang, and there a cobweb falls: Would you not sweare they love antiquity, Who brush the quire for perpetuity? Whilst all the other pavement and the floore Are supplicants to the surveyors power Of the high wayes, that he would gravell keepe; For else in winter sure it will be deepe. If not for Gods, for Mr. Wheatlyes sake Levell the walkes; suppose these pittfalls make Him spraine a lecture, or misplace a joynt In his long prayer, or his fiveteenth point: Thinke you the dawes or stares can sett him right? Surely this sinne upon your heads must light. And say, beloved, what unchristian charme Is this? you have not left a legg or arme Of an apostle: think you, were they whole, That they would rise, at least assume a soule? If not, ’tis plaine all the idolatry Lyes in your folly, not th’ imagery. Tis well the pinnacles are falne in twaine; For now the divell, should he tempt againe, Hath noe advantage of a place soe high: Fooles, he can dash you from your gallery, Where all your medly meete; and doe compare, Not what you learne, but who is longest there; The Puritan, the Anabaptist, Brownist, Like a grand sallet: Tinkers, what a towne ist? The crosses also, like old stumps of trees,