Be dumb, ye infant-chimes, thump not your mettle, That ne’re out-ring a tinker and his kettle; Cease, all you petty larums; for, to-day Is young Tom’s resurrection from the clay: And know, when Tom rings out his knells, The best of you will be but dinner-bells. Old Tom’s grown young again, the fiery cave Is now his cradle, that was erst his grave: He grew up quickly from his mother earth, For, all you see was but an hours birth; Look on him well, my life I dare engage, You ne’re saw prettier baby of his age. Some take his measure by the rule, some by The Jacobs-staff take his profundity, And some his altitude; but some do swear Young Tom’s not like the Old: But, Tom, ne’re fear The critical geometricians line, If thou as loud as e’re thou did ring’st nine. Tom did no sooner peep from under-ground, But straight Saint Maries tenor lost his sound. O how this may-poles heart did swell With full main sides of joy, when that crackt bell Choakt with annoy, and ’s admiration, Rung like a quart-pot to the congregation. Tom went his progress lately, and lookt o’re What he ne’re saw in many years before; But when he saw the old foundation, With some like hope of preparation, He burst with grief; and lest he should not have Due pomp, he’s his own bell-man to the grave: And that there might of him be still some mention, He carried to his grave a new invention. They drew his brown-bread face on pretty gins, And made him stalk upon two rolling-pins; But Sander Hill swore twice or thrice by heaven, He ne’re set such a loaf into the oven. And Tom did Sanders vex, his Cyclops maker, As much as he did Sander Hill, the baker; Therefore, loud thumping Tom, be this thy pride, When thou this motto shalt have on thy side: “Great world! one Alexander conquer’d thee, And two as mighty men scarce conquer’d me.” Brave constant spirit, none could make thee turn, Though hang’d, drawn, quarter’d, till they did thee burn: Yet not for this, nor ten times more be sorry, Since thou was martyr’d for the Churches glory; But for thy meritorious suffering, Thou shortly shalt to heaven in a string: And though we griev’d to see thee thump’d and bang’d, We’ll all be glad, Great Tom, to see thee hang’d. R. C. When too much zeal doth fire devotion, Love is not love, but superstition: Even so in civil duties, when we come Too oft, we are not kind, but troublesome. Yet as the first is not idolatry, So is the last but grieved industry: And such was mine, whose strife to honour you By overplus, hath rob’d you of your due. A PROPER NEW BALLAD, INTITULED THE FAERYES FAREWELL; OR, GOD-A-MERCY WILL. To be sung or whiseled to the Tune of “The Meddow Brow,” by the Learned; by the Unlearned, to the Tune of “Fortune.”