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 cob-web, hanging by
In their religious vesterie.

They have their ash-pans and their brooms
To purge the chappel and the rooms;
Their many mumbling masse-priests here,
And many a dapper chorister.

Their ush❜ring vergers here likewise;
Their canons and their chaunteries ;
Of cloyster-monks they have enow,
I, and their abby-lubbers too.
And if their legend doe not lye,
They much affect the papacie ;
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 nits, bels, books, and wax

Candles, forsooth, and other knacks;

Their holy oyle, their fasting spittle,

Their sacred salt here, not a little.

Dry chips, old shooes, rags, grease, and bones,

Beside their fumigations,

To drive the devill from the cod-piece

Of the fryar, of work an odde-piece.

Many a trifle, too, and trinket,

And for what use, scarce man wo'd think it.
Next then, upon the chanter's side
An apples-core is hung up dry'd,
With ratling kirnils, which is rung
To call to morn and even-song.
The saint, to which the most he prayes,
And offers incense nights and dayes,

The lady of the lobster is,

Whose foot-pace he doth stroak and kisse,
And humbly chives of saffron brings,
For his most cheerfull offerings.
When after these h'as paid his vows,
He lowly to the altar bows;

And then he dons the silk-worms shed,
Like a Turks turbant on his head,
And reverently departeth thence,
Hid in a cloud of frankincense;

And by the glow-worms light wel guided,
Goes to the feast that's now provided.

The Beggar to Mab, the Fairie Queen.
Please your grace, from out your store
Give an almes to one that's poore,
That your mickle
have more.

may

Black I'm grown for want of meat,
Give me then an ant to eate,
Or the cleft eare of a mouse
Over-sowr'd in drinke of souce;
Or, sweet lady, reach to me
The abdomen of a bee;
Or commend a cricket's hip,
Or his huckson, to my scrip,
Give for bread a little bit
Of a pease that 'gins to chit,
And my full thanks take for it.
Floure of fuz-balls, that's too good
For a man in needy-hood;
But the meal of mill-dust can
Well content a craving man;
Any orts the elves refuse
Well will serve the beggar's use.
But if this may seem too much
For an almes, then give me such

Little bits that nestle there
In the pris'ner's panier.
So a blessing light upon
You and mighty Oberon ;
That your plenty last till when
I return your almes agen.

The night-piece, to Julia.

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee,
The shooting-starres attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow,

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'th'-Wispe mis-light thee,
Nor snake or slow-worme bite thee ;
But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost ther's none to affright thee.

The Fairies.

If ye will with Mab find grace,

Set each platter in his place :
Rake the fier up, and get

Water in, ere sun be set.

Wash your pailes, and clense your dairies,

Sluts are loathsome to the fairies!

Sweep your house; Who doth not so,

Mab will pinch her by the toe.

Guard." The chorus is here omitted. It is also found in some editions of the "Academy of Complements."

Cleare the eyes of the watch,

Lazy sleepe we dispatch

From hence as farre as Dedford ;

For the flocke-bed and feather

We expose to the weather,

And hang all sheetes in the bed-cord.

The goblins and the jigge

We regard not a figge;

Our phansies they cannot vary:

We nere pity girles that doe

Finde no treasure in their shooe,

But are nipt by the tyrannous fairy.

List! the noise of the chaires

Wakes the wench to her pray'rs,

Queene Mab comes worse then a witch in, Backe and sides she entailes

To the print of her nailes,

Shee'le teach her to snort in the kitchen.

Some the night-mare hath prest,
With that weight on their breast,

No returnes of their breath can passe;

But to us the tale is addle,

We can take off her saddle,

And turne out the night-mare to grasse.

Now no more will we harke

To the charmes of the larke,

Or the tunes of the early thrush;

All the woods shall retire,

And submit to the quire

Of the birds in the holly-bush.

While the country lasse

With her dairy doth passe,

Our joys no tongue can utter;

For we centinells stand,

And exact by command

The excise of her lips and butter.