Dæneids, or The noble labours of the great dean of Notre-Dame in Paris for the erecting in his quire a throne for his glory, and the eclipsing the pride of an imperious, usurping character, an heroique poem in four canto's, containing a true history, and shews the folly, foppery, luxury, laziness, pride, ambition, and contention of the Romanish clergy.
         Crown, Mr. (John), 1640?-1712.
      
       
         
           1692
        
      
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             Dæneids, or The noble labours of the great dean of Notre-Dame in Paris for the erecting in his quire a throne for his glory, and the eclipsing the pride of an imperious, usurping character, an heroique poem in four canto's, containing a true history, and shews the folly, foppery, luxury, laziness, pride, ambition, and contention of the Romanish clergy.
             Crown, Mr. (John), 1640?-1712.
          
           [6], 32 p.
           
             Printed for Richard Baldwin ...,
             London :
             1692/1.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in British Museum Library.
             Attributed to John Crowne. cf. BM.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           Anti-clericalism -- Anecdotes
           Anti-Catholicism -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           DAENEIDS
           ,
           OR
           The
           Noble
           Labours
           of
           the
           Great
           Dean
           OF
           Notre-Dame
           IN
           PARIS
           ,
           For
           the
           Erecting
           in
           his
           Quire
           a
           Throne
           for
           his
           Glory
           ,
           and
           the
           Eclipsing
           the
           Pride
           of
           an
           Imperious
           ,
           Usurping
           Chanter
           .
        
         
           An
           Heroique
           POEM
           in
           Four
           Canto's
           .
        
         
           Containing
           a
           true
           History
           ,
           and
           shews
           the
           Folly
           ,
           Foppery
           ,
           Luxury
           ,
           Laziness
           ,
           Pride
           ,
           Ambition
           ,
           and
           Contention
           of
           the
           Romish
           Clergy
           .
        
         
           Licensed
           ,
           Jan.
           27.
           1691
           
           /
           2.
           
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             Richard
             Baldwin
          
           in
           Warwick-Lane
           ;
           near
           the
           Oxford-Arms-Inn
           .
           1692.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           To
           the
           Right
           Honourable
           JOHN
           Earl
           of
           MULGRAVE
           ,
           &c.
           
           Knight
           of
           the
           most
           Honourable
           Order
           of
           the
           Garter
           .
        
         
           
             My
             Lord
             ,
          
        
         
           I
           Have
           long
           been
           ashamed
           to
           see
           so
           many
           of
           my
           Writings
           march
           into
           the
           World
           ,
           and
           yet
           not
           one
           of
           'em
           Honour'd
           by
           Your
           Lordships
           Patronage
           .
           It
           is
           an
           easie
           matter
           for
           a
           Troop
           to
           force
           themselves
           on
           Ladies
           and
           Neutral
           Gentlemen
           ,
           or
           Nobility
           ,
           who
           will
           not
           Arm
           ;
           but
           they
           must
           be
           Men
           of
           some
           Merit
           and
           Gallantry
           who
           compel
           regard
           from
           a
           General
           .
           Your
           Lordship
           is
           as
           much
           above
           us
           in
           our
           own
           Ways
           ,
           as
           you
           are
           in
           other
           Respects
           ;
           and
           I
           give
           this
           manifest
           proof
           of
           it
           ,
           Your
           Fortune
           ,
           and
           ,
           most
           Men
           believe
           ,
           Your
           Inclinations
           ,
           fixes
           You
           on
           the
           top
           of
           Ease
           and
           Pleasure
           ,
           therefore
           you
           
           wou'd
           never
           have
           written
           one
           Line
           ,
           if
           it
           had
           cost
           you
           any
           pains
           ,
           yet
           have
           you
           perform'd
           Masteries
           ,
           which
           we
           who
           make
           Poetry
           the
           whole
           Business
           of
           our
           Lives
           ,
           cou'd
           never
           equal
           .
           In
           Your
           Essay
           on
           Poetry
           there
           appears
           to
           me
           a
           Commanding
           Genius
           ,
           standing
           on
           a
           Rise
           ,
           o're-looking
           the
           Age
           You
           live
           in
           ,
           seeing
           all
           the
           Writers
           in
           it
           marching
           below
           You
           ,
           and
           too
           often
           disorderly
           ;
           and
           You
           give
           us
           those
           Orders
           which
           plainly
           shew
           ,
           Poetry
           attends
           on
           You
           ,
           You
           may
           do
           what
           You
           please
           with
           it
           ,
           but
           we
           compar'd
           with
           Your
           Lordship
           ,
           are
           poor
           drudges
           to
           it
           ,
           that
           have
           oftner
           the
           Will
           ,
           than
           the
           Power
           to
           do
           well
           .
           Your
           Lordship
           has
           not
           only
           a
           perfect
           Understanding
           of
           what
           is
           fit
           to
           pass
           in
           the
           World
           ,
           but
           You
           are
           of
           a
           severe
           Temper
           which
           will
           not
           give
           Your
           Pass
           to
           any
           false
           Sence
           ,
           the
           absence
           therefore
           of
           Your
           Name
           from
           my
           Writings
           seems
           a
           silent
           Charge
           against
           me
           of
           want
           of
           Merit
           .
           To
           remove
           that
           Reproach
           ,
           I
           take
           this
           occasion
           to
           tell
           the
           World
           ,
           Your
           Lordship
           has
           approv'd
           of
           some
           of
           my
           Writings
           ;
           and
           I
           have
           long'd
           to
           make
           my
           brags
           of
           it
           ,
           but
           have
           been
           binder'd
           either
           by
           the
           unkindness
           of
           Fortune
           ,
           which
           has
           given
           me
           some
           blow
           ,
           and
           made
           me
           unfit
           to
           appear
           before
           You
           ,
           or
           by
           the
           kindness
           of
           some
           Generous
           Persons
           ,
           by
           which
           my
           Writings
           have
           been
           in
           a
           manner
           Morgag'd
           .
           Though
           the
           Law
           of
           the
           Land
           does
           not
           reckon
           Favours
           freely
           bestowed
           among
           Debts
           ,
           the
           Law
           of
           Gratitude
           does
           ;
           whenever
           a
           Man
           is
           oblig'd
           a
           Judgment
           is
           enter'd
           against
           him
           .
           
           In
           the
           late
           Reign
           when
           Your
           Lordship
           grac'd
           the
           Lord
           Chamberlains
           Office
           ,
           You
           were
           pleas'd
           to
           shew
           me
           those
           Regards
           which
           made
           me
           vain
           :
           And
           I
           was
           very
           desirous
           to
           make
           it
           known
           to
           the
           World
           ;
           but
           the
           Cloudiness
           of
           those
           Times
           ,
           got
           I
           think
           into
           my
           Head
           ,
           I
           did
           not
           Write
           so
           well
           as
           I
           have
           done
           formerly
           .
           Now
           I
           venture
           before
           Your
           Lordship
           ,
           because
           I
           bring
           an
           Acquaintance
           of
           Yours
           ,
           I
           am
           sure
           You
           value
           ,
           Mr.
           Boileau
           ;
           and
           a
           piece
           of
           his
           all
           Men
           of
           Sence
           have
           esteem'd
           ,
           because
           it
           exposes
           to
           contempt
           Men
           ,
           who
           are
           the
           Antipodes
           to
           good
           Sence
           ;
           Priests
           who
           advance
           Nonsence
           above
           Reason
           ,
           make
           Trifles
           of
           the
           most
           Solemn
           Matters
           ,
           and
           Solemn
           Things
           of
           Trifles
           ;
           are
           idle
           in
           the
           great
           Affairs
           of
           their
           Calling
           ,
           and
           busie
           in
           Impertinence
           .
           By
           the
           few
           we
           have
           had
           amongst
           us
           ,
           of
           such
           kind
           of
           Churchmen
           we
           may
           guess
           the
           misery
           of
           people
           who
           live
           in
           the
           Roman
           Church
           ,
           where
           there
           are
           scarce
           any
           other
           ;
           where
           the
           whole
           Mass
           of
           Priesthood
           is
           a
           heap
           of
           proud
           Flesh
           ,
           and
           all
           the
           Strength
           and
           Nutriment
           of
           a
           Nation
           ,
           goes
           to
           feed
           Ecclesiastical
           Corruption
           ;
           thanks
           be
           to
           God
           ,
           we
           are
           in
           a
           condition
           to
           make
           sport
           with
           'em
           ,
           if
           e're
           they
           come
           amongst
           us
           ,
           they
           will
           spoil
           the
           Jest
           .
           And
           past
           dispute
           't
           is
           very
           fit
           to
           render
           Men
           contemptible
           who
           endeavour
           to
           make
           Religion
           so
           .
           We
           have
           had
           too
           many
           in
           our
           Church
           who
           have
           busied
           themselves
           ,
           and
           embroil'd
           others
           about
           things
           ,
           which
           the
           French
           have
           had
           the
           understanding
           to
           know
           
           were
           only
           fit
           for
           a
           Droll
           .
           But
           now
           we
           have
           greater
           Affairs
           on
           our
           Hand
           .
           We
           have
           not
           time
           to
           contend
           for
           Modes
           in
           Religion
           ,
           when
           the
           Being
           of
           the
           Protestant
           Religion
           ,
           and
           indeed
           the
           English
           Nation
           lyes
           at
           stake
           .
           In
           a
           Calm
           at
           Sea
           Men
           may
           have
           leisure
           to
           wrangle
           at
           Chess
           ;
           but
           if
           a
           Storm
           rises
           the
           quarrel
           's
           at
           an
           end
           ,
           and
           the
           Bishops
           ,
           Knights
           ,
           Rooks
           and
           Pawns
           that
           bred
           it
           are
           left
           to
           shift
           for
           themselves
           .
           I
           am
           well
           assured
           the
           Lutrin
           pleases
           Your
           Lordship
           ,
           but
           I
           may
           doubt
           of
           my
           Management
           of
           it
           ;
           for
           I
           treat
           it
           as
           an
           English
           Privateer
           wou'd
           do
           a
           French
           Prize
           ,
           great
           part
           of
           it
           ,
           I
           fling
           away
           ,
           and
           I
           dash-brew
           and
           disguise
           the
           rest
           as
           I
           think
           good
           .
           I
           shall
           not
           value
           how
           the
           World
           censures
           me
           ,
           if
           I
           have
           the
           good
           Fortune
           to
           be
           approv'd
           of
           by
           Your
           Lordship
           ,
           and
           thought
           worthy
           of
           the
           Title
           of
        
         
           
             My
             Lord
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Lordships
             most
             Humble
             and
             Obliged
             Servant
             ,
             John
             Crowne
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           DAENEIDS
           OR
           The
           Noble
           Labours
           of
           the
           Great
           Dean
           OF
           Notre-Dame
           IN
           PARIS
           ,
           For
           the
           Erecting
           in
           his
           Quire
           a
           Throne
           for
           his
           Glory
           ,
           and
           the
           Eclipsing
           the
           Pride
           of
           an
           Imperious
           ,
           Usurping
           Chanter
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           
             CANTO
             the
             First
             .
          
           
             I
             Sing
             of
             Angels
             ,
             not
             the
             Heavenly
             Quire
             ,
          
           
             Who
             Peace
             and
             Truth
             ,
             and
             Harmony
             inspire
             .
          
           
             Hoarse
             Brazen
             Trumpet-like
             is
             my
             rough
             Voice
             ,
          
           
             Jarring
             Church-Angels
             therefore
             are
             my
             choice
             .
          
           
           
             In
             mighty
             Paris
             two
             great
             Spirits
             Reign'd
             ,
          
           
             Where
             one
             with
             ease
             cou'd
             not
             be
             well
             contain'd
             .
          
           
             They
             strove
             ,
             and
             from
             'em
             dreadful
             Thunders
             broke
             ,
          
           
             Which
             made
             great
             Notre-Dame
             both
             shake
             and
             smoke
             ;
          
           
             And
             ere
             the
             almost
             falling
             Church
             cou'd
             fix
             ,
          
           
             Strange
             Janglings
             made
             ,
             among
             Church-candlesticks
             .
          
           
             Of
             all
             the
             Priests
             that
             Wealthy
             Dome
             supplyed
          
           
             With
             Laziness
             ,
             with
             Luxury
             and
             Pride
             ,
          
           
             None
             deeper
             sunk
             ,
             or
             firmlier
             remain'd
          
           
             In
             Peace
             and
             Fat
             ,
             than
             he
             who
             o're
             it
             Reign'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             Dean
             ;
             a
             solid
             Priest
             in
             Flesh
             and
             Bone
             ,
          
           
             He
             like
             a
             sleepy
             Rowler
             trundled
             on
          
           
             Along
             all
             Times
             ;
             and
             gather'd
             as
             he
             rowl'd
          
           
             A
             heavy
             heap
             of
             fat
             and
             clammy
             Mold
             .
          
           
             He
             never
             knew
             when
             Changes
             went
             or
             came
             ,
          
           
             All
             Times
             ,
             Faiths
             ,
             Oaths
             ,
             appear'd
             to
             him
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             He
             had
             no
             Palate
             but
             for
             Meats
             and
             Wine
             ,
          
           
             In
             those
             he
             was
             a
             Learn'd
             profound
             Divine
             ;
          
           
             And
             to
             those
             Studies
             kept
             so
             close
             and
             hard
             ,
          
           
             To
             his
             Cathedral
             he
             paid
             small
             regard
             .
          
           
             Mean
             while
             a
             haughty
             Melancholly
             Sower
             ,
          
           
             Old
             busie
             snarling
             Chanter
             step'd
             in
             Power
             .
          
           
             Chief
             of
             the
             Chanters
             there
             ,
             he
             was
             by
             right
             ,
          
           
             But
             not
             contented
             with
             that
             Noble
             Height
             ,
          
           
             Usurp'd
             the
             Deans
             Supremacy
             ,
             and
             more
             ,
          
           
             Took
             high
             Prerogatives
             unknown
             before
             ,
          
           
           
             As
             scorning
             Power
             only
             at
             second
             Hand
             ;
          
           
             And
             terrible
             he
             was
             in
             his
             command
             ;
          
           
             He
             made
             the
             Singers
             shake
             more
             than
             in
             Song
             .
          
           
             This
             fierce
             Usurper
             Rul'd
             in
             quiet
             long
             ,
          
           
             Obey'd
             ,
             fear'd
             ,
             honour'd
             ,
             Church
             Affairs
             went
             on
             ,
          
           
             In
             a
             profound
             still
             current
             cross'd
             by
             none
             .
          
           
             At
             length
             the
             Dean
             from
             his
             long
             slumbers
             woke
             ,
          
           
             Burst
             through
             his
             Cloud
             ,
             and
             Church
             repose
             he
             broke
             .
          
           
             He
             saw
             his
             Reverence
             and
             State
             were
             gone
             ,
          
           
             And
             gallantly
             resolv'd
             to
             seize
             his
             own
             ;
          
           
             Nay
             his
             Prelatique
             Legal
             Pomp
             advance
          
           
             On
             the
             intruding
             Chanters
             arrogance
             .
          
           
             The
             great
             Soul'd
             Chanter
             having
             proudly
             Reign'd
             ,
          
           
             Submission
             scorn'd
             ,
             and
             Usurp'd
             State
             maintain'd
             .
          
           
             By
             his
             Devotion
             to
             Pomp
             ,
             Power
             and
             Pride
             ,
          
           
             He
             won
             the
             Zealous
             Canons
             to
             his
             side
             ;
          
           
             Who
             skill'd
             in
             causes
             of
             that
             mighty
             weight
             ,
          
           
             Lent
             him
             their
             aid
             by
             many
             a
             loud
             debate
             :
          
           
             So
             of
             old
             Pagan
             Prelates
             madly
             strove
          
           
             The
             Moons
             Eclipse
             by
             noises
             to
             remove
             .
          
           
             Pagans
             beat
             Dishes
             ,
             Pans
             and
             Platters
             hard
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Priests
             no
             clattering
             in
             Quotations
             spar'd
             .
          
           
             What
             Devil
             envious
             of
             Church
             repose
             ,
          
           
             These
             Fire-balls
             into
             holy
             Bosoms
             throws
             ,
          
           
             And
             turns
             the
             Church
             to
             a
             disorder'd
             Rout
             ?
          
           
             How
             can
             such
             fury
             enter
             Souls
             devout
             ?
          
           
           
             Stand
             off
             ,
             Atheistique
             Wits
             ,
             and
             Scoffers
             vain
             ,
          
           
             Do
             not
             my
             Grave
             and
             Solemn
             Song
             profane
             ?
          
           
             Great
             Notre-Dame
             ,
             the
             high
             and
             stately
             Scene
          
           
             Of
             our
             ensuing
             Story
             ,
             long
             had
             been
          
           
             Adorn'd
             and
             blest
             with
             many
             a
             deep
             Divine
             ,
          
           
             Not
             deep
             in
             Arts
             ,
             but
             in
             Down-beds
             and
             Wine
             .
          
           
             Their
             great
             Devotion
             doubly
             they
             exprest
             ;
          
           
             In
             Church
             by
             Pomp
             ,
             at
             home
             by
             Heavenly
             Rest
             .
          
           
             It
             grac'd
             their
             Masters
             Service
             to
             maintain
          
           
             In
             ease
             themselves
             ,
             his
             Fav'rite
             Gentlemen
             .
          
           
             On
             their
             soft
             Beds
             the
             Morn
             they
             dos'd
             away
             ,
          
           
             And
             left
             the
             Quire
             the
             drudgery
             to
             pray
             ;
          
           
             And
             to
             Rich
             lofty
             Cushions
             to
             supply
          
           
             Their
             Rooms
             i'
             Church
             ,
             and
             raise
             Gods
             Honour
             high
             .
          
           
             God
             was
             well
             serv'd
             ,
             though
             Priests
             were
             never
             there
             ;
          
           
             Bright
             Residentiaries
             the
             Cushions
             were
             .
          
           
             The
             Holy
             Men
             eat
             ,
             drunk
             and
             slept
             with
             Zeal
             ,
          
           
             For
             Heavens
             honour
             ,
             and
             the
             Churches
             weal
             ;
          
           
             Kept
             from
             themselves
             all
             Sacrilegious
             toil
             ;
          
           
             True
             to
             their
             Fat
             they
             were
             ,
             as
             Rhemes
             to
             Oil
             ,
          
           
             To
             anoint
             Gallique
             Kings
             an
             Angel
             brought
          
           
             Much
             Unctuous
             Fat
             God
             sent
             his
             Holy
             Lot
             ,
          
           
             Our
             pious
             Canons
             ,
             which
             to
             keep
             from
             waste
          
           
             Careful
             they
             were
             ,
             not
             to
             preach
             ,
             pray
             or
             fast
             ;
          
           
             Or
             only
             fast
             to
             give
             themselves
             a
             whet
             ,
          
           
             So
             when
             they
             charg'd
             ,
             the
             Rout
             was
             dreadful
             Great
             .
          
           
           
             Sometimes
             shole
             lulling
             Sermons
             from
             'em
             stream'd
             ;
          
           
             But
             Ah!
             so
             gently
             ,
             when
             they
             preach'd
             they
             seem'd
          
           
             Like
             Halcyons
             brooding
             o're
             ,
             a
             slumbring
             Wave
             ,
          
           
             To
             the
             Cathedral
             peaceful
             calms
             they
             gave
             .
          
           
             No
             croaking
             Preacher
             ,
             spoil'd
             with
             tedious
             din
             ,
          
           
             Good
             Sunday
             Dinners
             ,
             or
             sweet
             weekly
             Sin.
          
           
             No
             noise
             was
             there
             but
             of
             Harmonious
             sound
             ,
          
           
             Division
             there
             only
             in
             Song
             was
             found
             .
          
           
             When
             horrid
             Discord
             rear'd
             her
             snaky
             Head
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             who
             entertain'd
             ,
             a
             calm
             so
             dead
             ,
          
           
             So
             loath'd
             by
             her
             .
             Her
             Empire
             she
             surveigh'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             found
             her
             will
             ,
             by
             Millions
             was
             obey'd
             .
          
           
             Gladly
             she
             saw
             in
             each
             well
             govern'd
             State
          
           
             The
             Law
             ,
             with
             formal
             Pomp
             support
             debate
             .
          
           
             But
             Churches
             highly
             pleas'd
             her
             Ear
             and
             Eye
             ,
          
           
             She
             saw
             all
             Churches
             set
             her
             Honour
             high
             .
          
           
             Yet
             our
             Cathedral
             only
             in
             Musique
             loud
             ,
          
           
             Lodg'd
             Peace
             in
             scorn
             of
             Discord
             and
             her
             crowd
             .
          
           
             Discord
             in
             Rage
             pearch'd
             on
             the
             lofty
             Dome
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             her
             Mouth
             she
             Rain'd
             a
             poys'nous
             foam
          
           
             Which
             crack'd
             the
             Glass
             ;
             Martyr'd
             the
             Apostles
             there
             ;
          
           
             Then
             with
             a
             sigh
             ,
             which
             made
             Trees
             shed
             their
             Hair
             ;
          
           
             Foul'd
             the
             Church-plate
             ,
             that
             all
             its
             splendors
             died
          
           
             Like
             Men
             in
             Damps
             ;
             she
             vented
             thus
             her
             pride
             .
          
           
             How
             dar'st
             thou
             ,
             proud
             Cathedral
             ,
             Friendship
             shew
          
           
             To
             peace
             ,
             (
             said
             she
             )
             my
             known
             ,
             and
             vanquish'd
             Foe
             ,
          
           
           
             Which
             round
             the
             World
             I
             've
             spurn'd
             ?
             Where
             has
             she
             rest
             ?
          
           
             In
             one
             fair
             Realm
             sh
             'as
             scarce
             one
             single
             Breast
             .
          
           
             How
             often
             there
             in
             the
             same
             person
             Fight
             ,
          
           
             Whig
             ,
             Tory
             ,
             Williamite
             ,
             and
             Jacobite
             ,
          
           
             Who
             have
             by
             turns
             the
             better
             of
             the
             fray
             ;
          
           
             As
             French
             or
             Irish
             get
             or
             lose
             the
             day
             ;
          
           
             Or
             as
             the
             hands
             of
             their
             good
             Moses
             rise
             ,
          
           
             Well
             to
             reward
             ,
             or
             sharply
             to
             chastise
             .
          
           
             I
             've
             made
             my self
             a
             Barricado
             strong
             ,
          
           
             Of
             stiff
             Non-swearers
             ,
             a
             most
             stubborn
             throng
             ,
          
           
             Who
             by
             no
             Art
             to
             yield
             can
             be
             compell'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             grow
             more
             hard
             like
             Trees
             ,
             by
             being
             fell'd
             .
          
           
             Nay
             even
             some
             Swearers
             to
             advance
             my
             Reign
             ,
          
           
             The
             Crown
             secur'd
             by
             Law
             unfix
             again
             ;
          
           
             Carve
             Power
             by
             Conquest
             which
             is
             carv'd
             by
             Law
             ,
          
           
             Some
             Swearers
             against
             these
             keen
             Weapons
             draw
          
           
             Between
             'em
             Peace
             and
             Truth
             ,
             lead
             wretched
             Lives
             ,
          
           
             These
             Fighters
             wound
             'em
             with
             their
             Carving-knives
          
           
             Me
             above
             Church
             and
             State
             all
             Nations
             set
             ,
          
           
             And
             dares
             one
             Church
             neglect
             a
             Power
             so
             great
             ?
          
           
             Woes
             for
             thee
             this
             provoking
             Crime
             provides
             .
          
           
             Streight
             her
             enormous
             Figure
             Discord
             hides
          
           
             With
             a
             square
             Cap
             ,
             a
             Surplice
             ,
             Hood
             and
             Gown
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             from
             an
             old
             Sour
             Canon
             could
             be
             known
             .
          
           
             Most
             true
             to
             Discord
             ;
             he
             wag'd
             endless
             War
          
           
             With
             Peace
             ,
             in
             Presses
             ,
             Pulpits
             ,
             at
             the
             Bar
             ,
          
           
           
             All
             Bars
             of
             Civil
             and
             of
             Canon
             Laws
             ,
          
           
             To
             Law
             he
             went
             ,
             with
             or
             without
             a
             cause
             .
          
           
             With
             Suits
             at
             Law
             all
             his
             Tythe-corn
             he
             ground
             ,
          
           
             Ay
             ,
             and
             himself
             ,
             and
             all
             his
             Neighbours
             round
             .
          
           
             He
             would
             not
             spare
             his
             Purse
             ,
             Brain
             ,
             Flesh
             or
             Bone
             ,
          
           
             To
             stir
             the
             clack
             of
             Lawyers
             and
             his
             own
             .
          
           
             Discord
             and
             wrangling
             highly
             to
             promote
             ,
          
           
             He
             rail'd
             ,
             he
             sued
             ,
             he
             studied
             ,
             and
             he
             wrote
             ;
          
           
             Toil'd
             unlike
             God
             ,
             from
             light
             he
             darkness
             spun
             ;
          
           
             Worlds
             by
             this
             Anti-Maker
             were
             undone
             .
          
           
             He
             preach'd
             for
             malice
             ,
             in
             the
             Pulpit
             boil'd
             ,
          
           
             Till
             Dinners
             and
             Devotions
             both
             were
             spoil'd
             .
          
           
             When
             his
             thin
             Flock
             by
             Winter
             Winds
             were
             Flead
             ,
          
           
             To
             gaul
             the
             Sore
             he
             'd
             a
             long
             Service
             Read
             ;
          
           
             Then
             far
             above
             his
             Hour
             in
             Pulpit
             Rail
             .
          
           
             Then
             tack
             an
             Altar
             Service
             to
             the
             Tail
             ,
          
           
             Till
             all
             their
             Meat
             was
             burnt
             ,
             and
             Noses
             Raw
             ,
          
           
             To
             provoke
             some
             to
             give
             him
             Food
             for
             Law.
          
           
             Dissent
             ,
             assent
             ,
             his
             Dues
             detain
             or
             pay
             ,
          
           
             (
             Though
             not
             to
             Heaven
             )
             to
             Court's
             the
             certain
             way
             .
          
           
             By
             this
             good
             Guide
             all
             they
             were
             sure
             to
             find
             ,
          
           
             Who
             conform'd
             not
             in
             all
             things
             to
             his
             mind
             :
          
           
             If
             pious
             Reverence
             they
             forgot
             to
             shew
          
           
             To
             Altars
             ,
             and
             his
             Person
             by
             a
             bow
             ;
          
           
             And
             did
             not
             Service
             so
             exactly
             mark
             ,
          
           
             To
             start
             at
             all
             Responses
             with
             the
             Clerk
             ,
          
           
           
             To
             pour
             their
             Voices
             in
             the
             mutt'ring
             throng
             ,
          
           
             And
             help
             to
             push
             the
             murmuring
             Stream
             along
             ;
          
           
             If
             they
             nick'd
             not
             their
             times
             to
             kneel
             and
             rise
             ,
          
           
             And
             on
             these
             faults
             his
             Spectacles
             were
             spies
             .
          
           
             But
             woe
             to
             Hugonots
             remote
             or
             nigh
             ;
          
           
             From
             his
             hot
             busie
             Zeal
             ,
             and
             watchful
             Eye
             ,
          
           
             Proctors
             and
             Paritours
             had
             wealthy
             spoil
             ,
          
           
             And
             Constables
             an
             Everlasting
             toil
             .
          
           
             Baptismal
             Water
             ,
             Sacramental
             Wine
          
           
             Cast
             away
             much
             of
             the
             Reformers
             Coin.
          
           
             Basons
             and
             Bowles
             not
             blest
             with
             legal
             forms
          
           
             Were
             sure
             to
             meet
             with
             most
             confounding
             storms
             .
          
           
             Discord
             had
             chose
             this
             Canon
             for
             her
             own
             ,
          
           
             And
             therefore
             mark'd
             his
             Brow
             with
             many
             a
             frown
             .
          
           
             His
             lean
             Cheeks
             wrangled
             ,
             all
             the
             wrinkles
             clash'd
          
           
             Whene're
             they
             met
             ,
             and
             deep
             his
             Visage
             slash'd
             ,
          
           
             Therefore
             his
             Figure
             Discord
             wisely
             wore
             ,
          
           
             For
             none
             cou'd
             fit
             her
             better
             ,
             please
             her
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Canto
             the
             Second
             .
          
           
             TO
             the
             Deans
             Palace
             stormy
             Discord
             steer'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             finds
             the
             bulky
             Prelate
             Sepulcher'd
          
           
             In
             an
             Alcove
             and
             down
             ;
             in
             hopes
             at
             last
          
           
             Of
             joyful
             Resurrection
             to
             Repast
             .
          
           
             In
             his
             fair
             spreading
             Cheeks
             ,
             the
             Churches
             charge
          
           
             Had
             rais'd
             a
             Garden
             beautiful
             and
             large
             ;
          
           
             And
             in
             two
             stories
             built
             his
             goodly
             Chin
             ,
          
           
             To
             let
             these
             run
             to
             Ruin
             were
             a
             Sin.
          
           
             The
             Holy
             Man
             did
             no
             Expences
             spare
             ,
          
           
             To
             keep
             'em
             faithfully
             in
             good
             Repair
             ;
          
           
             And
             every
             part
             about
             him
             fat
             and
             sound
             ,
          
           
             For
             they
             were
             Church
             Demeans
             and
             holy
             Ground
             .
          
           
             Rich
             Curtains
             gave
             his
             slumbers
             strong
             defence
             ,
          
           
             Against
             Day
             's
             Sacrilegious
             violence
             .
          
           
             Soft
             Pillows
             hid
             his
             Cheeks
             ,
             and
             let
             no
             Air
          
           
             Approach
             to
             harm
             the
             lively
             Flowers
             there
             :
          
           
             For
             Youth's
             Spring
             Flowers
             in
             his
             Autumn
             grew
             ,
          
           
             Those
             Cheeks
             possessing
             which
             were
             Ages
             due
             .
          
           
             All
             things
             in
             order
             were
             for
             Dinner
             laid
             ,
          
           
             When
             the
             great
             Goddess
             her
             proud
             Entry
             made
             .
          
           
             The
             exact
             order
             highly
             pleas'd
             her
             Eye
             ;
          
           
             She
             knew
             the
             Church
             by
             scrupulous
             decency
             .
          
           
             In
             all
             the
             joys
             of
             Silence
             ,
             Ease
             and
             Pride
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             a
             Breakfast
             strongly
             fortified
             ,
          
           
           
             The
             Dean
             attending
             Dinner
             slumb'ring
             lay
             ;
          
           
             When
             thus
             the
             Goddess
             drove
             his
             Rest
             away
             .
          
           
             Wake
             quickly
             Dean
             ,
             said
             she
             ,
             or
             wake
             no
             more
             ;
          
           
             A
             Chanter
             haughtily
             usurps
             thy
             Power
             ,
          
           
             Shines
             in
             the
             Quire
             with
             thy
             Prelatique
             Grace
             ,
          
           
             And
             awes
             it
             with
             the
             same
             commanding
             Face
             .
          
           
             All
             Bows
             of
             Singers
             are
             to
             him
             addrest
             ;
          
           
             All
             Congregations
             by
             his
             Mouth
             are
             blest
             ;
          
           
             He
             graces
             all
             the
             Saints
             High
             Solemn
             days
             ,
          
           
             When
             to
             oblige
             'em
             he
             in
             person
             prays
             .
          
           
             Shortly
             he
             'll
             Youth
             Confirm
             ,
             and
             Priests
             Ordain
             ,
          
           
             And
             scarce
             to
             thee
             thy
             Rochet
             shall
             remain
             .
          
           
             Renounce
             thy
             Prelacy
             ,
             or
             thy
             Repose
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Fortune
             dooms
             thee
             one
             of
             'em
             to
             lose
             .
          
           
             This
             said
             ,
             she
             breaths
             into
             him
             ,
             through
             his
             Ear
             ,
          
           
             The
             Spirit
             of
             a
             common
             Barreter
             .
          
           
             He
             wakes
             and
             yawns
             ,
             and
             with
             half-opened
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             Gives
             the
             dire
             Fiend
             his
             Blessing
             as
             he
             flies
             ;
          
           
             Then
             like
             a
             raging
             Bull
             with
             Hornets
             stung
          
           
             Around
             the
             Chamber
             his
             Fat
             Body
             flung
             ;
          
           
             Chid
             Maids
             and
             Lacqueys
             ,
             why
             he
             did
             not
             know
             ,
          
           
             And
             before
             Dinner
             to
             the
             Quire
             will
             go
             .
          
           
             But
             his
             wise
             Steward
             much
             allay'd
             his
             Rage
             ,
          
           
             By
             Councils
             Seasonable
             ,
             Calm
             and
             Sage
             .
          
           
             What
             Fury's
             this
             (
             said
             he
             )
             has
             seiz'd
             your
             mind
             ,
          
           
             And
             hurries
             you
             to
             Church
             e're
             you
             ha'
             Din'd
             ?
          
           
           
             Oft
             have
             you
             left
             the
             work
             of
             saving
             Souls
             ,
          
           
             To
             sport
             some
             Hours
             at
             Tables
             ,
             Chess
             or
             Bowls
             ,
          
           
             But
             for
             the
             Church
             ne're
             Dinner
             left
             till
             now
             ;
          
           
             The
             Dresser-board
             is
             ready
             for
             the
             blow
             .
          
           
             Your
             Cook
             now
             foams
             ,
             and
             so
             does
             your
             Pottage
             ,
          
           
             With
             your
             Judicious
             Palate
             to
             engage
             .
          
           
             And
             if
             your
             Rost-meats
             you
             compel
             to
             stay
             ,
          
           
             Sir
             ,
             they
             will
             weep
             their
             Gravy
             all
             away
             .
          
           
             Your
             Haut-gousts
             now
             most
             vigorous
             and
             strong
             ,
          
           
             Will
             sicken
             if
             in
             cold
             they
             tarry
             long
             ;
          
           
             And
             never
             be
             reviv'd
             by
             second
             heat
             ,
          
           
             Sir
             ,
             if
             you
             go
             ,
             you
             'l
             Murder
             all
             your
             Meat
             .
          
           
             It
             is
             not
             Lent
             ;
             say
             't
             were
             ,
             it
             seems
             a
             waste
          
           
             Of
             Holiness
             in
             Holy
             Men
             to
             Fast
             .
          
           
             Your
             Tongues
             and
             Pens
             support
             Church
             Rites
             and
             Laws
             ,
          
           
             What
             need
             y'engage
             your
             Bowels
             in
             the
             Cause
             ?
          
           
             Sure
             't
             was
             the
             Churches
             Motherly
             intent
          
           
             Lent
             should
             keep
             Prelates
             ,
             and
             not
             Prelates
             Lent.
          
           
             Religiously
             support
             your
             high
             degree
             ,
          
           
             Do
             not
             by
             toil
             debase
             your
             Dignity
             .
          
           
             This
             said
             ,
             he
             wisely
             cover'd
             all
             the
             Cloth
          
           
             With
             Crowds
             of
             Dishes
             ,
             and
             a
             Tyde
             of
             Broth.
          
           
             Much
             on
             the
             pious
             Dean
             this
             Vision
             wrought
             ;
          
           
             His
             Cloth
             a
             while
             St.
             
             Peter's
             Sheet
             he
             thought
             ;
          
           
             A
             Treat
             let
             down
             from
             Heaven
             in
             a
             Dream
             ,
          
           
             Till
             his
             pleas'd
             Nostrils
             felt
             th'
             inviting
             Steam
             .
          
           
           
             Then
             fiercely
             he
             applyed
             himself
             to
             eat
             ,
          
           
             Prov'd
             it
             was
             more
             than
             Visionary
             Meat
             .
          
           
             Fast
             o're
             the
             Tongue
             he
             turn'd
             his
             Morsels
             all
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Morning
             Collects
             at
             a
             Festival
             ;
          
           
             Eat
             till
             he
             choak'd
             himself
             ,
             but
             not
             his
             wroth
             ,
          
           
             He
             champ'd
             his
             Words
             and
             Meat
             confus'dly
             both
             .
          
           
             He
             skipt
             from
             Dish
             to
             Dish
             ,
             he
             knew
             not
             why
             ,
          
           
             No
             order
             minded
             ,
             nor
             sweet
             decency
             .
          
           
             The
             Steward
             thought
             his
             Masters
             end
             was
             near
             ,
          
           
             He
             knew
             not
             Creatures
             which
             he
             lov'd
             so
             dear
             ;
          
           
             And
             in
             great
             sorrow
             was
             about
             to
             run
          
           
             To
             summon
             Friends
             ;
             but
             Fame
             that
             work
             had
             done
             .
          
           
             They
             scatt'ring
             came
             like
             Troops
             of
             daunted
             Cranes
             ,
          
           
             When
             the
             proud
             Pigmy
             a
             recruit
             obtains
             .
          
           
             The
             Visit
             rais'd
             the
             Prelate
             from
             Despair
             ,
          
           
             Chac'd
             from
             his
             Visage
             the
             late
             furious
             Air.
          
           
             So
             pleas'd
             he
             was
             with
             the
             respect
             they
             shew'd
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             vouchsaf'd
             to
             rise
             ,
             nay
             more
             ,
             he
             bow'd
             :
          
           
             Commanded
             the
             Westphalia-Ham
             again
             ,
          
           
             Fill'd
             Wine
             himself
             to
             honour
             the
             good
             Men
             ,
          
           
             Drunk
             first
             and
             deeply
             ;
             the
             Example
             pleas'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             streight
             a
             Flaggon
             of
             its
             load
             was
             eas'd
             .
          
           
             He
             kindly
             mov'd
             'em
             then
             to
             take
             a
             part
          
           
             Of
             what
             remain'd
             ,
             and
             of
             a
             fair
             desert
             ;
          
           
             The
             Table
             clear
             ,
             out
             burst
             his
             inward
             pain
             .
          
           
             Dear
             Friends
             (
             said
             he
             )
             by
             whose
             support
             I
             Reign
             ,
          
           
           
             My self
             your
             charitable
             Work
             I
             own
             ,
          
           
             Which
             the
             proud
             Chanter
             thinks
             to
             tumble
             down
             .
          
           
             At
             least
             by
             interposing
             in
             my
             Rights
             ,
          
           
             To
             make
             me
             useless
             ,
             and
             blind
             up
             my
             lights
             .
          
           
             To
             him
             do
             all
             Church
             Officers
             repair
             ;
          
           
             At
             his
             command
             the
             Sexton
             Rings
             to
             Prayer
             .
          
           
             Chapters
             are
             held
             at
             his
             usurping
             call
             ;
          
           
             What
             need
             of
             Deans
             ,
             if
             Chanters
             can
             do
             all
             ?
          
           
             But
             then
             Tears
             stopt
             the
             current
             of
             his
             talk
             :
          
           
             His
             Loving
             Steward
             empower'd
             his
             Tongue
             to
             walk
          
           
             With
             chearful
             Wine
             ,
             when
             Boyrude
             bending
             low
          
           
             With
             heavy
             Age
             ,
             with
             trembling
             steps
             and
             slow
          
           
             Enter'd
             the
             Room
             .
             The
             Church
             had
             us'd
             his
             pains
          
           
             In
             four
             successive
             Deans
             Illustrious
             Reigns
             .
          
           
             None
             in
             Church
             Customs
             was
             so
             skill'd
             as
             he
             ;
          
           
             He
             was
             a
             living
             true
             Church
             History
             .
          
           
             His
             knowledge
             rais'd
             him
             from
             a
             Sexton
             poor
             ,
          
           
             To
             the
             high
             Trust
             of
             all
             Church
             Garniture
             ,
          
           
             Great
             Office
             !
             Robes
             are
             often
             half
             the
             Dean
             ,
          
           
             This
             Rules
             those
             Robes
             ,
             ordains
             'em
             to
             be
             clean
             .
          
           
             One
             in
             this
             Office
             half
             a
             Dean
             Ordains
             ,
          
           
             O're
             half
             a
             Dean
             as
             Dean
             he
             proudly
             Reigns
             .
          
           
             He
             has
             in
             part
             an
             Arch-prelatique
             Power
             ;
          
           
             He
             's
             of
             one
             Colledge
             parcel
             Visitour
             .
          
           
             At
             first
             approach
             the
             Reverend
             Sage
             ,
             espics
          
           
             The
             Deans
             demolisht
             Pride
             and
             groveling
             Eyes
             .
          
           
           
             Guessing
             the
             cause
             he
             smiling
             towards
             him
             mov'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             Father-like
             his
             Childish
             grief
             reprov'd
             .
          
           
             For
             shame
             (
             said
             he
             )
             let
             the
             poor
             Chanter
             weep
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Rights
             and
             Empire
             study
             you
             to
             keep
             .
          
           
             Hark
             to
             the
             Counsel
             Heaven
             does
             now
             inspire
             ;
          
           
             Where
             the
             proud
             Chanter
             over-looks
             the
             Quire
          
           
             With
             frowning
             arrogance
             ,
             some
             Ages
             past
          
           
             The
             Church
             was
             shaded
             with
             an
             Engine
             vast
             ,
          
           
             Desk
             ,
             Throne
             ,
             or
             Pulpit
             ,
             call
             it
             what
             you
             please
             :
          
           
             At
             once
             it
             serv'd
             Devotion
             ,
             Pomp
             and
             Ease
             .
          
           
             There
             Thron'd
             in
             Glory
             ,
             I
             have
             seen
             a
             Dean
             ,
          
           
             In
             Vestments
             Rich
             ,
             on
             Velvet
             Cushions
             lean
             .
          
           
             Prayer-books
             Embost
             with
             Gold
             before
             him
             shone
             ,
          
           
             Which
             drew
             all
             Eyes
             upon
             'em
             but
             his
             own
             .
          
           
             A
             Worm
             stol'n
             from
             a
             Grave
             the
             Chanter
             seem'd
             ,
          
           
             Just
             visible
             enough
             to
             be
             contemn'd
             .
          
           
             Time
             ,
             Fate
             or
             Fiends
             ,
             malicious
             Men
             ,
             or
             all
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             they
             're
             all
             Foes
             to
             good
             )
             conspir'd
             its
             fall
             .
          
           
             Malicious
             Men
             we
             think
             by
             secret
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Gave
             it
             a
             Sickness
             in
             some
             Noble
             part
             ,
          
           
             That
             never
             visited
             nor
             minded
             well
             ,
          
           
             One
             Morn
             it
             yawn'd
             ,
             and
             down
             to
             Ruin
             fell
             .
          
           
             And
             to
             its
             worth
             the
             ungrateful
             Quire
             unjust
             ,
          
           
             Laid
             it
             in
             dark
             forgetfulness
             and
             dust
             .
          
           
             What
             honour'd
             once
             the
             Quire
             ,
             has
             now
             forlorn
             ,
          
           
             Lain
             thirty
             Winters
             languishing
             in
             scorn
             .
          
           
           
             Three
             of
             us
             ,
             fit
             for
             such
             a
             great
             Affair
             ,
          
           
             Will
             Perewig'd
             in
             Nights
             dishevel'd
             Hair
             ,
          
           
             Steal
             to
             the
             Pulpit
             ,
             in
             its
             mournful
             Room
             ,
          
           
             And
             gloriously
             Reward
             its
             Martyrdom
             .
          
           
             If
             once
             to
             murmur
             the
             proud
             Chanter
             dare
             ,
          
           
             The
             Wretch
             with
             Forty
             Biting
             Actions
             tear
             .
          
           
             Since
             not
             in
             Learning
             be
             in
             Law
             Renown'd
             .
          
           
             Shew
             a
             Church
             Spirit
             ,
             the
             whole
             Church
             confound
             ,
          
           
             Ere
             quit
             a
             Title
             of
             your
             sacred
             Right
             ;
          
           
             Let
             Laymen
             pray
             ,
             Prelates
             are
             known
             by
             Might
             .
          
           
             Your
             Divine
             dazling
             Right
             dart
             at
             your
             Foe
             ;
          
           
             Then
             to
             the
             Church
             in
             all
             Church
             splendor
             go
             ;
          
           
             And
             there
             Brow-beat
             th'
             Usurper
             to
             the
             ground
             ;
          
           
             Then
             to
             out-brave
             him
             disperse
             Blessings
             round
             .
          
           
             To
             blast
             his
             Pride
             ,
             and
             shew
             your self
             Supream
             ,
          
           
             Bless
             all
             the
             Congregation
             ,
             nay
             bless
             him
             .
          
           
             The
             Counsel
             seem'd
             to
             admiration
             wise
             ;
          
           
             The
             Dean
             in
             Ravishments
             ,
             with
             lifted
             Eyes
             ,
          
           
             Heav'ns
             Inspiration
             most
             devoutly
             blest
             ;
          
           
             But
             straight
             a
             new
             Reflection
             struck
             his
             Breast
             .
          
           
             I
             now
             have
             in
             the
             Quire
             ,
             a
             Seat
             ,
             (
             said
             he
             )
          
           
             Cloath'd
             with
             Rich
             Cushions
             Crown'd
             with
             Canopy
             ,
          
           
             On
             what
             pretence
             can
             I
             Erect
             this
             Throne
             ?
          
           
             Boyrude
             replyed
             ,
             a
             most
             Religious
             one
             ,
          
           
             Sermons
             to
             hear
             .
             Th'
             Assembly
             trembled
             all
          
           
             With
             horrour
             at
             the
             sound
             Fanatical
             .
          
           
           
             The
             Prelate
             hotly
             fir'd
             profanely
             swore
             ;
          
           
             And
             almost
             call'd
             for
             an
             Inquisitor
             .
          
           
             Dar'st
             thou
             (
             said
             he
             )
             Name
             Sermons
             in
             my
             Ear
             ?
          
           
             I
             'le
             be
             no
             Dean
             e're
             buy
             the
             place
             so
             dear
             .
          
           
             I
             'le
             rather
             Combat
             with
             wild
             Beasts
             like
             Paul
             ,
          
           
             Or
             like
             Isaiah
             be
             Sawed
             once
             for
             all
             ,
          
           
             Than
             weekly
             be
             with
             Tort'ring
             Sermons
             Sawed
             ,
          
           
             Postpone
             my
             Meals
             ,
             and
             be
             with
             Fasting
             gnawed
             ;
          
           
             Nay
             more
             my self
             into
             the
             Toyl
             they
             'l
             fetch
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             my self
             shall
             be
             oblig'd
             to
             preach
             .
          
           
             Make
             potent
             Prelates
             preach
             ?
             The
             Sage
             replies
             ;
          
           
             Pray
             by
             what
             Rule
             ?
             You
             are
             not
             Tongues
             ,
             but
             Eyes
             .
          
           
             Our
             Eyes
             guide
             all
             our
             Limbs
             yet
             keep
             their
             Ease
             ;
          
           
             Labour
             becomes
             not
             highest
             Dignities
             .
          
           
             Sect'ries
             like
             Jews
             with
             wandrings
             are
             perplext
             ,
          
           
             Doom'd
             all
             their
             Lives
             to
             rove
             from
             Text
             to
             Text
             ,
          
           
             Die
             in
             that
             Wilderness
             ,
             and
             ne're
             possess
          
           
             Romes
             Blessed
             Holy
             Land
             of
             Laziness
             ;
          
           
             A
             Land
             that
             flows
             with
             Honey
             ,
             Milk
             and
             Gains
             ,
          
           
             At
             Heav'ns
             sole
             cost
             ,
             and
             not
             the
             Owners
             pains
             .
          
           
             Of
             this
             y
             'ave
             more
             than
             a
             dim
             Pisgah
             sight
             ;
          
           
             And
             Ease
             is
             your
             inviolable
             Right
             .
          
           
             Make
             Canons
             preach
             ;
             and
             while
             the
             work
             is
             done
             ,
          
           
             Let
             your
             austere
             grave
             presence
             lash
             'em
             on
             .
          
           
             By
             their
             dull
             Saws
             no
             doubt
             you
             will
             be
             pain'd
             ,
          
           
             But
             you
             'l
             with
             sweet
             Revenge
             be
             Entertain'd
             .
          
           
           
             They
             've
             uncanonical
             Rebellious
             Tongues
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             'em
             you
             've
             receiv'd
             a
             thousand
             wrongs
             .
          
           
             Like
             Jades
             in
             Water-works
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             make
             'em
             sweat
             ,
          
           
             Till
             from
             'em
             penitential
             drops
             you
             get
             .
          
           
             Then
             you
             'll
             soon
             have
             Revenge
             and
             Rev'rence
             both
             ;
          
           
             Soon
             at
             your
             Feet
             they
             'll
             fall
             to
             compass
             sloth
             .
          
           
             Into
             a
             loud
             Applause
             th'
             Assembly
             broke
             ,
          
           
             And
             thought
             Man
             never
             with
             more
             Wisdom
             spoke
             .
          
           
             All
             start
             ,
             of
             Fame
             to
             have
             the
             greatest
             share
             ,
          
           
             But
             the
             wise
             Dean
             reduc'd
             'em
             as
             they
             were
             .
          
           
             All
             things
             in
             Church
             by
             Order
             must
             be
             done
             ,
          
           
             (
             Said
             he
             )
             that
             rears
             and
             fixes
             every
             Throne
             .
          
           
             None
             shall
             approach
             this
             Work
             ,
             but
             those
             whom
             Fate
          
           
             Shall
             by
             a
             Lot
             Ordain
             and
             Consecrate
             .
          
           
             Thirty
             selected
             Names
             are
             writ
             with
             haste
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             bottom
             of
             a
             Bonnet
             cast
             .
          
           
             Fairly
             to
             draw
             the
             Billets
             ,
             they
             employ
          
           
             Rosie-cheek'd
             Will
             that
             pretty
             Singing
             boy
             ;
          
           
             His
             Head
             new
             poll'd
             ,
             his
             Face
             and
             Linnen
             clean
             ,
          
           
             Though
             no
             Saints
             day
             ,
             for
             much
             he
             pleas'd
             the
             Dean
             .
          
           
             The
             Prelate
             all
             partiality
             disclaims
             ;
          
           
             Having
             thrice
             blest
             ,
             as
             often
             shakes
             the
             Names
             .
          
           
             Will
             draws
             ,
             and
             Trole
             is
             the
             first
             Name
             that
             comes
             :
          
           
             Birds
             promis'd
             good
             ,
             which
             freely
             peck'd
             their
             Crums
             ;
          
           
             Sure
             no
             ill
             Augury
             could
             now
             be
             Read
             ,
          
           
             This
             Red-beak'd
             Bird
             from
             Liquor
             never
             fled
             .
          
           
           
             A
             pleasing
             murmur
             in
             the
             Throng
             was
             rais'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             Fortunes
             choice
             by
             every
             one
             was
             prais'd
             .
          
           
             Will
             to
             his
             Office
             does
             again
             Repair
             ;
          
           
             And
             draws
             a
             Name
             ,
             most
             fatal
             to
             the
             Fair
             ,
          
           
             Of
             a
             young
             Singing-man
             whose
             Charms
             (
             't
             is
             said
             )
          
           
             Had
             been
             the
             Death
             of
             many
             a
             Chamber-maid
             .
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             his
             keen
             mounting
             Darts
             reach'd
             lofty
             Game
             ,
          
           
             Threatned
             high
             Ranks
             with
             loss
             of
             Life
             or
             Fame
             .
          
           
             Whatever
             Beauty
             ogled
             him
             was
             lost
             ,
          
           
             Transform'd
             into
             a
             Strumpet
             or
             a
             Ghost
             .
          
           
             Yet
             to
             the
             dangerous
             Snare
             they
             ventur'd
             all
             :
          
           
             His
             Silver
             Pipe
             was
             a
             true
             Lady-call
             ,
          
           
             Which
             both
             Church-pews
             and
             Playhouse-boxes
             cram'd
             ,
          
           
             Entic'd
             the
             Fair
             both
             to
             be
             Sav'd
             and
             Damn'd
             .
          
           
             But
             Oh!
             That
             Lady
             gain'd
             the
             height
             of
             Bliss
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             he
             in
             private
             taught
             to
             Sing
             and
             Kiss
             .
          
           
             Long
             the
             soft
             Sex
             did
             for
             the
             Youth
             contend
             ;
          
           
             Some
             took
             their
             Eyes
             ,
             some
             Money
             for
             their
             Friend
             .
          
           
             Some
             had
             him
             all
             ,
             and
             some
             had
             modest
             shares
             ,
          
           
             Some
             clear'd
             their
             Tones
             ,
             some
             gave
             a
             crack
             to
             theirs
             .
          
           
             To
             him
             his
             Fortune
             gave
             a
             second
             choice
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             they
             go
             to
             ask
             Fates
             last
             Advice
             .
          
           
             Their
             Names
             and
             panting
             Hearts
             are
             tost
             again
             .
          
           
             Each
             fearing
             Fate
             his
             Person
             should
             disdain
             .
          
           
             Honest
             old
             Verger
             !
             What
             sincere
             delight
          
           
             Shook
             thy
             dry
             Corps
             ,
             when
             they
             Name
             rose
             in
             sight
             ?
          
           
           
             Thy
             Yellow
             Cheeks
             turn'd
             Red
             ,
             and
             with
             a
             shout
          
           
             Thou
             backwards
             gav'st
             a
             spring
             in
             spite
             of
             Gout
             .
          
           
             Now
             Loyal
             true
             Church
             Hearts
             ,
             who
             for
             Church
             weal
          
           
             Had
             an
             unquenchable
             Religious
             Zeal
             ,
          
           
             Much
             prais'd
             Fate
             's
             choice
             of
             Men
             for
             Church
             Affairs
             ,
          
           
             And
             wish'd
             all
             Realms
             as
             able
             Ministers
             ;
          
           
             All
             Kings
             as
             deep
             in
             sight
             ,
             as
             Fate
             had
             shewn
          
           
             In
             chusing
             Men
             ,
             to
             serve
             the
             Church
             and
             Throne
             .
          
           
             On
             the
             design
             now
             all
             prepare
             to
             go
             ;
          
           
             And
             in
             a
             murmuring
             Stream
             ,
             away
             they
             flow
          
           
             To
             the
             Deans
             Celler
             ,
             where
             they
             rent
             the
             Arch
          
           
             With
             Drunken
             Songs
             ,
             and
             sounded
             oft
             a
             March.
          
           
             The
             Prelate
             calm'd
             ,
             resum'd
             his
             lost
             Repose
             ,
          
           
             And
             now
             till
             Supper
             ,
             laid
             him
             down
             to
             Dose
             .
          
        
         
           
             Canto
             the
             Third
             .
          
           
             NOW
             Night
             was
             in
             the
             middle
             of
             her
             Reign
             ,
          
           
             Great
             was
             her
             Pomp
             ,
             and
             spacious
             was
             her
             Train
             .
          
           
             From
             her
             large
             Throne
             of
             Jet
             she
             saw
             the
             proud
          
           
             High
             Towers
             of
             Paris
             scorn
             an
             humble
             Cloud
             .
          
           
             Ravens
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             Prophets
             o'
             the
             Air
          
           
             Nightly
             to
             Dormitories
             near
             repair
             .
          
           
             Amongst
             the
             rest
             for
             twenty
             Winters
             foul
             ,
          
           
             In
             a
             dark
             Cave
             ,
             a
             Sibyl
             call'd
             an
             Owl
          
           
             Secur'd
             her self
             from
             day's
             oppressing
             light
             ;
          
           
             And
             fled
             abroad
             to
             prophesie
             at
             Night
             .
          
           
           
             Of
             great
             disasters
             she
             has
             early
             sense
             ,
          
           
             Is
             an
             Impartial
             true
             Intelligence
             .
          
           
             All
             Sects
             believe
             her
             though
             she
             joins
             with
             none
             ;
          
           
             The
             Schismatick
             flyes
             all
             Communion
             .
          
           
             Night
             for
             her
             healing
             touch
             Nature
             Enthrones
             ,
          
           
             She
             often
             cures
             both
             crazy
             Minds
             and
             Bones
             .
          
           
             Kings
             fallen
             with
             Care
             below
             even
             common
             Men
             ,
          
           
             She
             Re-anoints
             ,
             and
             makes
             'em
             Kings
             again
             .
          
           
             Day
             wears
             ,
             but
             Night
             repairs
             ,
             nay
             makes
             Mankind
             ,
          
           
             The
             only
             Labour
             to
             her
             Reign
             assign'd
             .
          
           
             Therefore
             this
             Ethiope
             with
             day
             divides
          
           
             The
             Rule
             of
             Time
             ;
             half
             through
             her
             Empire
             slides
             .
          
           
             Angry
             to
             see
             her
             Reign
             profan'd
             with
             toyl
             ,
          
           
             She
             posted
             to
             suppress
             the
             noisy
             broyl
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             bold
             Authors
             ;
             for
             the
             great
             Affair
             ,
          
           
             She
             chose
             this
             Owl
             her
             premier
             Minister
             ,
          
           
             And
             call'd
             her
             out
             ;
             her
             Black
             Queens
             Voice
             she
             knew
             ,
          
           
             To
             her
             Retinue
             joyfully
             she
             flew
             .
          
           
             Both
             swiftly
             through
             th'
             August
             Cathedral
             past
             ,
          
           
             And
             found
             the
             Prison
             of
             the
             Engine
             vast
             .
          
           
             It
             lay
             neglected
             in
             a
             Desert
             Room
             ;
          
           
             Night
             plac'd
             her
             Bird
             deep
             in
             its
             dusty
             Womb.
          
           
             Now
             Trole
             and
             Minnum
             two
             great
             Chiefs
             Elect
             ,
          
           
             Left
             the
             Deans
             Vault
             ,
             and
             the
             slow
             Verger
             check'd
             .
          
           
             He
             was
             as
             Vigorous
             as
             they
             in
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             But
             Age
             and
             Gout
             detain'd
             him
             far
             behind
             .
          
           
           
             Besides
             th'
             old
             Tortoise
             carried
             on
             his
             Back
          
           
             Of
             Necessary
             Tools
             a
             boisterous
             pack
             ,
          
           
             As
             Hammer
             ,
             Chissels
             ,
             Mallet
             ,
             Saw
             ,
             and
             Nails
             ,
          
           
             Under
             whose
             weight
             his
             wasted
             Vigour
             fails
             .
          
           
             The
             Warriours
             force
             through
             Nights
             affrightful
             shade
             ,
          
           
             The
             high
             proud
             Dome
             then
             Valiantly
             Invade
             .
          
           
             First
             they
             ascend
             to
             the
             magnifique
             Porch
             ,
          
           
             Which
             stor'd
             the
             Valued
             Learning
             of
             the
             Church
             .
          
           
             The
             Verger
             stop'd
             the
             Troop
             ,
             whilst
             with
             the
             dint
          
           
             Of
             Steel
             ,
             he
             cut
             the
             Veins
             of
             stubborn
             Flint
             ,
          
           
             And
             forc'd
             from
             thence
             a
             Spark
             ;
             the
             Infant
             bright
          
           
             As
             soon
             as
             Born
             begot
             another
             light
             ,
          
           
             Which
             proves
             to
             them
             a
             kind
             of
             Midnight
             Sun
             ,
          
           
             By
             whose
             direction
             boldly
             they
             go
             on
             .
          
           
             Th'
             unfolding
             Gates
             upon
             the
             Troop
             let
             loose
          
           
             Detested
             Shades
             ,
             like
             Floods
             through
             opening
             Sluce
             .
          
           
             Like
             a
             bold
             Caravan
             the
             Stream
             they
             stem
             ,
          
           
             The
             Horrours
             and
             the
             Solitude
             contemn
             ,
          
           
             So
             on
             in
             Wilds
             where
             never
             was
             a
             Road
             ;
          
           
             And
             reach
             at
             length
             the
             Pulpits
             dark
             abode
             .
          
           
             Their
             Wonders
             on
             the
             fallen
             Machine
             they
             Feast
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Birds
             upon
             the
             Carcase
             of
             a
             Beast
             .
          
           
             How
             now
             (
             said
             Minnum
             )
             come
             we
             here
             to
             gaze
             ?
          
           
             And
             then
             ambitious
             to
             engross
             the
             praise
             ,
          
           
             With
             a
             stiff
             threatning
             Arm
             ,
             and
             bending
             back
             ,
          
           
             He
             singly
             made
             a
             desperate
             Attaque
             .
          
           
           
             Ere
             half
             his
             force
             the
             Engine
             had
             receiv'd
             ,
          
           
             (
             Astonishing
             !
             and
             not
             to
             be
             believ'd
             ,
             )
          
           
             A
             horrid
             Voice
             out
             of
             the
             Pulpit
             flew
             ,
          
           
             Th'
             old
             Verger
             from
             his
             Back
             his
             Burden
             threw
             ;
          
           
             The
             Fire
             out
             of
             Troles
             flaming
             Visage
             stray'd
             ,
          
           
             Only
             in
             his
             Nose
             ,
             as
             in
             a
             Socket
             play'd
             .
          
           
             Pale
             Minnum
             like
             a
             Lilly
             hung
             his
             Head
             ,
          
           
             With
             his
             lost
             Mistress
             wish'd
             himself
             i'
             Bed
             :
          
           
             But
             fearing
             shame
             he
             put
             false
             Courage
             on
             ,
          
           
             Seem'd
             bolder
             now
             more
             danger
             might
             be
             won
             .
          
           
             The
             frightful
             dangerous
             Engine
             shook
             once
             more
             ,
          
           
             With
             greater
             Rosolution
             than
             before
             .
          
           
             The
             angry
             Owl
             once
             more
             depriv'd
             of
             Ease
             ,
          
           
             Rushes
             abroad
             with
             louder
             Menaces
             ,
          
           
             Scatt'ring
             a
             Storm
             of
             Wind
             and
             Dust
             about
             ,
          
           
             Which
             put
             their
             Candle
             and
             their
             Courage
             out
             .
          
           
             Their
             trembling
             Knees
             cou'd
             not
             their
             Bodies
             bear
             ;
          
           
             Their
             Nerves
             were
             weaker
             than
             their
             staring
             Hair.
          
           
             In
             wild
             confusion
             they
             slunk
             all
             away
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Truants
             by
             their
             Whipster
             catch'd
             at
             Play.
          
           
             Discord
             rag'd
             at
             their
             foil
             ,
             and
             in
             despight
          
           
             Of
             their
             base
             fear
             will
             force
             'em
             to
             the
             Fight
             .
          
           
             In
             Boyrudes
             wither'd
             Figure
             she
             appears
          
           
             Aged
             ,
             but
             worn
             with
             wrangling
             more
             than
             years
             ;
          
           
             Wrinkled
             ,
             but
             Malice
             half
             the
             Cyphers
             made
             ,
          
           
             And
             claim
             to
             half
             his
             wasted
             Visage
             laid
             .
          
           
           
             Her
             bending
             Trunk
             she
             with
             a
             Staff
             supports
             ,
          
           
             And
             halls
             to
             find
             her
             Warriours
             dark
             resorts
             .
          
           
             With
             broken
             voice
             ,
             and
             hoarse
             with
             frequent
             brawl
          
           
             She
             cries
             ,
             where
             are
             you
             fled
             you
             Cowards
             all
             ?
          
           
             Think
             you
             because
             your
             odious
             Head
             you
             hide
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Infamy
             more
             odious
             is
             not
             spyed
             .
          
           
             Come
             out
             and
             shew
             the
             reason
             of
             your
             fear
             ;
          
           
             Stung
             with
             reproof
             ,
             with
             boldness
             they
             appear
             ,
          
           
             Proud
             of
             th'
             Encounter
             ,
             and
             prepar'd
             to
             boast
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             of
             'em
             believ'd
             the
             Owla
             Ghost
             .
          
           
             Minnum
             was
             fix'd
             in
             the
             Opinion
             strong
             ;
          
           
             His
             Charms
             had
             kill'd
             a
             Sempstress
             fair
             and
             young
             .
          
           
             Her
             Heart
             was
             crush'd
             between
             his
             Voice
             and
             Face
             ,
          
           
             The
             Kingdom
             had
             not
             such
             a
             dangerous
             place
             .
          
           
             His
             Fault
             had
             fix'd
             her
             in
             the
             fatal
             Snare
             :
          
           
             She
             often
             came
             to
             gaze
             on
             him
             at
             Prayer
             ,
          
           
             And
             when
             his
             Eye
             was
             from
             the
             Book
             releas'd
             ,
          
           
             He
             glances
             shot
             which
             pierc'd
             her
             tender
             Breast
             .
          
           
             At
             length
             ,
             Alas
             !
             she
             perish'd
             in
             the
             fray
             ,
          
           
             Her
             ruin
             therefore
             heavy
             on
             him
             lay
             .
          
           
             What
             shape
             cou'd
             more
             exactly
             fit
             her
             Soul
             ,
          
           
             Than
             that
             of
             an
             unlovely
             bashful
             Owl
             ,
          
           
             Whom
             the
             wing'd
             Chanters
             drive
             out
             of
             their
             sight
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             her
             live
             in
             melancholly
             Night
             .
          
           
             With
             these
             Conceits
             they
             swelling
             came
             ,
             and
             cram'd
             ;
          
           
             Minnum
             for
             th'
             Owl
             a
             doleful
             Speech
             had
             fram'd
             .
          
           
             Said
             he
             ,
             we
             saw
             a
             Ghost
             or
             Goblin
             Foul
             ,
          
           
             Goblin
             ,
             replyed
             the
             Goddess
             ,
             a
             poor
             Owl
             ,
          
           
             Drives
             you
             from
             Glory
             by
             base
             childish
             fears
             .
          
           
             The
             Owl
             has
             been
             my
             Neighbour
             thirty
             years
             .
          
           
           
             Near
             my
             own
             House
             she
             every
             Evening
             makes
          
           
             And
             sends
             abroad
             her
             Nightly
             Almanacks
             .
          
           
             Fear
             you
             a
             foolish
             timerous
             Owls
             grimace
             ?
          
           
             How
             durst
             y'
             Encounter
             then
             a
             Judges
             Face
             ?
          
           
             Board
             Lawyers
             without
             Fees
             ,
             as
             I
             have
             done
             ,
          
           
             And
             to
             my self
             Immortal
             Glory
             won
             .
          
           
             Judges
             from
             me
             cou'd
             not
             protect
             the
             Bar
             ,
          
           
             Where
             spite
             of
             'em
             my
             Deeds
             recorded
             are
             .
          
           
             Oh!
             Sirs
             the
             Church
             produc'd
             brave
             Spirits
             then
             ,
          
           
             A
             Sexton
             was
             as
             surly
             as
             a
             Dean
             ;
          
           
             Bore
             wrongs
             as
             proudly
             ,
             and
             forgave
             as
             few
             ,
          
           
             The
             least
             of
             us
             wou'd
             a
             whole
             Chapter
             Sue
             .
          
           
             But
             the
             old
             World
             grows
             Barren
             by
             degrees
             ,
          
           
             And
             breeds
             no
             more
             such
             Gallant
             Souls
             as
             these
             .
          
           
             However
             imitate
             their
             Vertues
             great
             ,
          
           
             Let
             not
             an
             Owl
             compel
             you
             to
             retreat
             .
          
           
             Think
             what
             dishonour
             on
             your selves
             you
             throw
             ,
          
           
             How
             insolent
             you
             'l
             make
             the
             Chanter
             grow
             .
          
           
             From
             Texts
             he
             cannot
             borrow
             such
             controul
             ,
          
           
             As
             from
             the
             shameful
             Story
             o'
             the
             Owl
             .
          
           
             The
             thought
             o'
             th'
             Owl
             will
             ride
             you
             Night
             and
             Day
             ;
          
           
             Dis-spirit
             you
             though
             you
             be
             ne're
             so
             gay
             ;
          
           
             Untune
             your
             Voices
             ,
             when
             you
             'd
             sing
             your
             best
             ,
          
           
             Ruffle
             your
             Plumes
             when
             you
             are
             neatly
             drest
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Surplices
             ,
             Wigs
             ,
             Cravats
             ,
             set
             with
             care
             ;
          
           
             The
             Women
             will
             regard
             you
             less
             than
             Prayer
             ;
          
           
             The
             Pews
             will
             be
             neglected
             by
             degrees
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             old
             Verger
             lose
             his
             Sunday
             Fees.
          
           
             I
             hear
             a
             murmur
             say
             ,
             your
             Spirits
             rise
             ,
          
           
             And
             I
             see
             Noble
             Fury
             in
             your
             Eyes
             .
          
           
           
             Away
             to
             Honour
             ,
             gather
             Lawrels
             fast
             ,
          
           
             With
             present
             Bravery
             ,
             hide
             Dishonour
             past
             .
          
           
             This
             said
             ,
             the
             Warlike
             Goddess
             took
             her
             flight
             ,
          
           
             And
             mounting
             streak'd
             the
             Air
             with
             tracks
             of
             Light
             ,
          
           
             Which
             fir'd
             our
             Champions
             Hearts
             .
             The
             Howlard
             fled
             ,
          
           
             A
             generous
             contempt
             succeeded
             dread
             .
          
           
             Th'
             Affront
             receiv'd
             from
             the
             vile
             sawcy
             Foe
             ,
          
           
             On
             th'
             Engine
             was
             reveng'd
             by
             many
             a
             blow
             .
          
           
             In
             mournful
             Tones
             the
             pitying
             Organ
             moan'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             all
             the
             Sympathizing
             Temple
             groan'd
             .
          
           
             Ah!
             when
             this
             spacious
             wooden
             Horse
             was
             rear'd
             ,
          
           
             If
             thou
             ,
             Oh!
             Chanter
             !
             hadst
             the
             Treason
             heard
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             in
             defence
             of
             Ecclesiastick
             pride
             ,
          
           
             Like
             a
             fierce
             Church
             Apostle
             ,
             wou'dst
             have
             died
             ;
          
           
             Rather
             great
             Martyr
             been
             ,
             than
             Chanter
             small
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             Red
             Letters
             shine
             ere
             not
             at
             all
             .
          
           
             But
             sleep
             thou
             feedst
             does
             with
             thy
             Foes
             combine
             ,
          
           
             And
             hug
             thee
             whilst
             they
             compass
             their
             design
             .
          
           
             For
             now
             a
             lofty
             Ecclesiastick
             Throne
          
           
             Buries
             thy
             Bench
             ,
             where
             thou
             so
             long
             hast
             shone
             .
          
        
         
           
             Canto
             the
             Fourth
             .
          
           
             THE
             Clocks
             do
             now
             begin
             their
             Morning
             brawl
             ,
          
           
             And
             drowzy
             Chanters
             to
             their
             Mattins
             call
             .
          
           
             Their
             Chief
             was
             troubled
             with
             a
             frightful
             Dream
             ,
          
           
             Which
             made
             him
             sweat
             ,
             and
             waken
             with
             a
             scream
             .
          
           
             His
             trembling
             Valets
             on
             his
             second
             cries
             ,
          
           
             Forsake
             their
             warm
             enticing
             Down
             ,
             and
             rise
             .
          
           
             But
             wakeful
             Gerot
             reach'd
             his
             Master
             first
             ,
          
           
             An
             humble
             Valet
             ,
             but
             a
             Verger
             curst
             .
          
           
           
             He
             kept
             the
             Quire
             on
             the
             sinister
             side
             ,
          
           
             He
             crouch'd
             at
             home
             ,
             but
             there
             he
             shew'd
             his
             pride
             .
          
           
             Mean
             were
             his
             common
             Customers
             for
             Pues
             ,
          
           
             So
             in
             their
             humble
             Bows
             he
             took
             his
             Dues
             .
          
           
             Said
             he
             ,
             what
             Humour
             drives
             your
             Rest
             away
             ,
          
           
             Will
             you
             to
             Church
             when
             it
             is
             scarcely
             day
             ?
          
           
             Sleep
             on
             ,
             your
             Business
             is
             to
             take
             your
             Ease
             ,
          
           
             Let
             vulgar
             Chanters
             Earn
             their
             Salaries
             .
          
           
             Friend
             ,
             said
             the
             Chanter
             ,
             trembling
             ,
             faint
             and
             pale
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Mirth
             wou'd
             die
             ,
             if
             you
             knew
             what
             I
             ail
             .
          
           
             Insult
             not
             o're
             me
             ,
             but
             prepare
             to
             hear
          
           
             Th'
             amazing
             cause
             of
             my
             surprizing
             fear
             .
          
           
             When
             sleep
             had
             twice
             upon
             my
             Eyes
             bestow'd
          
           
             Of
             drowzy
             Poppies
             ,
             a
             fresh
             gather'd
             load
             ;
          
           
             I
             dreamt
             I
             fill'd
             my
             lofty
             Seat
             in
             Prayer
             ,
          
           
             Triumphing
             o're
             the
             minor
             Chanters
             there
             ,
          
           
             Absolving
             ,
             Chanting
             ,
             taking
             Humble
             bows
             ,
          
           
             Giving
             the
             Blessing
             ;
             all
             with
             frowning
             Brows
             :
          
           
             When
             a
             great
             Dragon
             ,
             with
             Jaws
             dreadful
             wide
          
           
             Souz'd
             on
             my
             Bench
             ,
             and
             swallow'd
             all
             my
             Pride
             .
          
           
             Then
             Rage
             Tongue-tyed
             him
             ;
             Gerot
             laughing
             loud
             ,
          
           
             Said
             Dreams
             were
             fumes
             from
             ill-concocted
             Food
             ;
          
           
             Cooks
             with
             ill-sawce
             ,
             cou'd
             every
             Night
             bestow
          
           
             On
             childish
             Fancies
             ,
             such
             a
             Poppet-show
             .
          
           
             The
             sad
             old
             Man
             cou'd
             ne're
             with
             mirth
             agree
          
           
             But
             now
             abhorr'd
             his
             ill-tim'd
             Raillery
             ;
          
           
             Forbad
             him
             speaking
             ,
             and
             from
             Bed
             he
             flings
             .
          
           
             Gerot
             to
             calm
             him
             his
             Rich
             Habit
             brings
             ;
          
           
             Which
             very
             little
             cou'd
             his
             mind
             sustain
             ,
          
           
             For
             if
             his
             Desk
             be
             hid
             ,
             all
             those
             were
             vain
             .
          
           
           
             But
             yet
             their
             offer'd
             Grace
             he
             will
             not
             slight
             ;
          
           
             He
             rush'd
             into
             his
             Gown
             ,
             and
             Surplice
             white
             .
          
           
             But
             above
             all
             he
             will
             not
             leave
             behind
             ,
          
           
             His
             spacious
             Scarlet
             Hood
             ,
             with
             Tabby
             lin'd
             .
          
           
             His
             haughty
             heart
             wou'd
             break
             ,
             if
             he
             shou'd
             lack
          
           
             That
             proof
             of
             Learning
             ,
             to
             adorn
             his
             Back
             .
          
           
             With
             his
             best
             Bonnet
             then
             he
             grac'd
             his
             Brow
             ,
          
           
             Sole
             mark
             of
             Learning
             his
             white
             Head
             cou'd
             shew
             .
          
           
             His
             purple
             Gloves
             he
             never
             fail'd
             to
             wear
             ,
          
           
             When
             he
             wou'd
             honour
             much
             himself
             and
             Prayer
             .
          
           
             And
             marching
             now
             in
             Battle
             to
             engage
             ,
          
           
             Omitted
             no
             Illustrious
             Equipage
             ,
          
           
             Then
             much
             beyond
             the
             weakness
             of
             his
             years
          
           
             Push'd
             on
             ,
             and
             earliest
             in
             the
             Quire
             appears
             .
          
           
             But
             Oh!
             what
             spite
             and
             fury
             fir'd
             his
             Blood
             ,
          
           
             When
             on
             his
             Bench
             he
             saw
             the
             Pulpit
             stood
             ?
          
           
             Oh!
             Gerot
             see
             !
             said
             he
             ,
             the
             Dragon
             see
             ,
          
           
             Which
             broke
             my
             sleep
             ,
             and
             now
             will
             swallow
             me
             .
          
           
             Oh!
             faithful
             Dream
             ,
             thou
             too
             much
             truth
             hast
             shown
             ;
          
           
             The
             Dean
             is
             an
             Ingenious
             Tyrant
             grown
             ;
          
           
             By
             this
             Machine
             ,
             does
             wittily
             contrive
             ,
          
           
             To
             send
             me
             to
             Infernal
             Shades
             alive
             .
          
           
             Nothing
             but
             God
             will
             ever
             see
             me
             here
             ;
          
           
             Dark
             shadows
             will
             expunge
             my
             Character
             .
          
           
             Ere
             such
             a
             horrible
             affront
             I
             'll
             bear
             ,
          
           
             I
             'll
             quit
             my
             Office
             ,
             and
             the
             Church
             forswear
             ;
          
           
             I
             'll
             give
             my
             vain
             superfluous
             Chantings
             o're
             ,
          
           
             And
             tyre
             the
             Ears
             of
             God
             and
             Man
             no
             more
             .
          
           
             I
             'll
             never
             toyl
             that
             Deans
             may
             Glory
             win
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             see
             that
             Quire
             where
             I
             shall
             ne're
             be
             seen
             .
          
           
           
             'T
             is
             time
             enough
             to
             go
             to
             Shades
             when
             dead
             ,
          
           
             I
             'll
             now
             have
             Light
             :
             Then
             his
             old
             Arms
             he
             spread
          
           
             With
             fury
             strong
             ,
             and
             shook
             the
             wondrous
             frame
             ,
          
           
             When
             th'
             Organist
             and
             the
             Clock-mender
             came
             ,
          
           
             His
             faithful
             Friends
             .
             The
             Vision
             struck
             'em
             wan
             ,
          
           
             With
             trembling
             hands
             they
             held
             th'
             old
             vent'rous
             Man
             ;
          
           
             Said
             they
             ,
             the
             work
             's
             too
             weighty
             for
             us
             all
             ;
          
           
             By
             a
             full
             Chapter
             let
             the
             Monster
             fall
             .
          
           
             In
             open
             day
             ;
             't
             will
             your
             great
             party
             shew
             ,
          
           
             Strengthen
             your self
             ,
             and
             terrifie
             the
             Foe
             .
          
           
             Right
             ,
             said
             the
             Chanter
             ;
             go
             ,
             by
             noise
             or
             force
             ,
          
           
             The
             sleeping
             Canons
             from
             their
             Beds
             divorce
             .
          
           
             The
             Champions
             trembled
             when
             beyond
             their
             thought
          
           
             Their
             Counsel
             on
             themselves
             such
             danger
             brought
             .
          
           
             Oh!
             moderate
             your
             anger
             ,
             Sir
             ,
             said
             they
             ,
          
           
             Awaken
             Rich
             Fat
             Canons
             before
             day
             ?
          
           
             Men
             doubly
             Buried
             both
             in
             Flesh
             and
             Down
             ?
          
           
             Th'
             Attempt
             is
             rare
             ,
             the
             Deed
             was
             never
             known
             ,
          
           
             Starv'd
             Monks
             a
             Larum
             in
             their
             Bosoms
             keep
          
           
             Hunger
             ;
             a
             watchful
             Enemy
             to
             sleep
             .
          
           
             Their
             thin
             worn
             Wheels
             are
             soon
             in
             motion
             set
             ,
          
           
             But
             who
             can
             stir
             a
             Canon
             mir'd
             in
             Fat
             ?
          
           
             Deceitful
             Cowards
             th'
             old
             testy
             Man
             ,
             reply'd
             ,
          
           
             Your
             terrour
             of
             the
             Dean
             you
             fain
             wou'd
             hide
             .
          
           
             A
             hundred
             times
             ,
             I
             've
             seen
             you
             crouching
             stand
          
           
             With
             servile
             Necks
             ,
             beneath
             his
             Blessing
             Hand
             .
          
           
             The
             work
             ,
             good
             Gerot
             ,
             shall
             by
             us
             be
             done
             ,
          
           
             Our
             Friends
             for
             once
             shall
             shame
             the
             loyt'ring
             Sun.
          
           
             Cunning
             old
             Gerot
             knew
             the
             Canons
             well
          
           
             〈◊〉
             his
             worn
             Lungs
             ,
             rung
             the
             great
             Master
             Bell
             ;
          
           
           
             Which
             like
             the
             heavy
             Dean
             but
             serv'd
             for
             State
             ,
          
           
             And
             almost
             broke
             the
             Church
             with
             needless
             weight
             .
          
           
             Th'
             unchristned
             Bell
             ,
             with
             Sacrilegious
             roar
             ,
          
           
             From
             his
             strong
             Camp
             the
             God
             of
             slumbers
             tore
             ;
          
           
             Broke
             open
             all
             the
             Holy
             Canons
             Eyes
             ;
          
           
             And
             made
             the
             Devis
             of
             noise
             and
             tumult
             rise
             .
          
           
             Some
             believ'd
             Thunder
             broke
             into
             the
             Room
             ,
          
           
             Others
             half
             fear'd
             it
             was
             the
             Day
             of
             Doom
             .
          
           
             Some
             Priests
             less
             scar'd
             ,
             thought
             't
             was
             a
             dying
             knell
             ,
          
           
             Some
             keenly
             hungry
             hop'd
             't
             was
             Pancake-bell
             .
          
           
             The
             sound
             with
             different
             sence
             fill'd
             every
             head
             ,
          
           
             Like
             a
             dark
             Text
             wondrous
             confusion
             bred
             .
          
           
             So
             when
             to
             batter
             down
             a
             hundred
             Walls
             ,
          
           
             The
             thund'ring
             Lewis
             leaves
             the
             fair
             Versailles
          
           
             To
             the
             young
             Spring
             ,
             not
             valuing
             her
             delights
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             spread
             Banners
             all
             the
             World
             affrights
             ;
          
           
             Danow
             to
             th'
             Euxin
             hastes
             his
             March
             to
             shun
             ,
          
           
             Swift
             Rhy●●
             〈◊〉
             great
             commotion
             hurries
             on
             .
          
           
             Brussels
             for
             rending
             Bombs
             looks
             every
             hour
             ,
          
           
             And
             
             Sodom-like
             to
             feel
             a
             fiery
             Shower
             .
          
           
             Rich
             skirted
             Tagus
             creeps
             far
             under
             ground
             ,
          
           
             And
             hides
             much
             Treasure
             there
             in
             Vaults
             profound
             .
          
           
             Amphibious
             Holland
             plunges
             deep
             in
             Waves
             ,
          
           
             Buries
             it self
             alive
             in
             watry
             Graves
             .
          
           
             So
             under
             Blankets
             the
             Priests
             duckt
             their
             Heads
             ,
          
           
             Sought
             a
             warm
             easie
             Burial
             in
             their
             Beds
             .
          
           
             Vexatious
             Gerot
             knew
             their
             temper
             well
             ,
          
           
             With
             potent
             words
             he
             seconded
             the
             Bell.
          
           
             Ho!
             Breakfast
             waits
             the
             cunning
             Verger
             cries
             ,
          
           
             At
             that
             Angelick
             Summons
             they
             arise
             ,
          
           
           
             In
             Expectations
             of
             Divine
             Delights
             :
          
           
             All
             look
             their
             Cloaths
             ,
             but
             none
             their
             Appetites
             .
          
           
             For
             they
             were
             ready
             ere
             their
             Gowns
             were
             on
             :
          
           
             Headlong
             undrest
             to
             the
             great
             Hall
             they
             run
             ,
          
           
             But
             '
             stead
             of
             Breakfast
             met
             a
             mournful
             Tale
             ,
          
           
             Told
             by
             the
             Chanter
             ,
             with
             great
             fury
             pale
             ;
          
           
             Who
             as
             a
             Pestilence
             were
             in
             his
             Breath
             ,
          
           
             Struck
             mighty
             Hunger
             with
             a
             sudden
             Death
             .
          
           
             Everard
             painful
             abstinence
             abhorr'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             bad
             the
             Verger
             cover
             straight
             the
             Board
             .
          
           
             To
             that
             once
             savoury
             motion
             no
             Man
             spoke
             ,
          
           
             At
             length
             Learn'd
             Allen
             the
             deep
             silence
             broke
             .
          
           
             He
             only
             of
             all
             the
             Priests
             our
             Church
             obey'd
             ,
          
           
             Had
             not
             his
             Latin
             smother'd
             and
             o'relay'd
             .
          
           
             Others
             by
             wealth
             to
             dulness
             did
             advance
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             the
             Churches
             Coin
             bought
             Ignorance
             .
          
           
             But
             he
             had
             wander'd
             from
             that
             practis'd
             Rule
             ,
          
           
             And
             was
             as
             Learn'd
             as
             when
             he
             came
             from
             School●
          
           
             His
             Roman
             Tongue
             there
             gave
             him
             mighty
             Power
             ,
          
           
             There
             he
             was
             almost
             Roman
             Emperour
             .
          
           
             None
             in
             his
             presence
             durst
             lay
             claim
             to
             Parts
             ,
          
           
             For
             if
             they
             did
             his
             Latin
             stab'd
             their
             Hearts
             .
          
           
             This
             Tyrant
             yet
             was
             their
             Defence
             and
             Grace
             ;
          
           
             Latin
             was
             such
             a
             terrour
             to
             the
             place
             ,
          
           
             All
             other
             Canons
             fled
             at
             first
             Alarms
             ,
          
           
             Of
             men
             approaching
             with
             such
             dreadful
             Arms.
          
           
             But
             Noble
             Allen
             scorn'd
             his
             Head
             to
             hide
             ,
          
           
             And
             sturdy
             shocks
             of
             Latin
             durst
             abide
             .
          
           
             Most
             Learnedly
             Equip'd
             ,
             th'
             accomplisht
             Man
          
           
             Having
             first
             cough'd
             ,
             his
             wise
             Harangue
             began
             .
          
           
           
             Some
             Huguenots
             our
             curst
             Eternal
             Foes
             ,
          
           
             Planted
             this
             here
             ,
             to
             batter
             our
             repose
             .
          
           
             In
             some
             Church
             History
             they
             have
             read
             ,
             I
             fear
             ,
          
           
             Canons
             once
             preach'd
             ,
             and
             Deans
             sat
             here
             to
             hear
             .
          
           
             I
             range
             in
             Volumes
             not
             to
             poach
             for
             Art
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             meet
             Latin
             which
             delights
             my
             Heart
             .
          
           
             Let
             us
             all
             study
             with
             what
             speed
             we
             may
             ,
          
           
             And
             shew
             our selves
             as
             deeply
             Learn'd
             as
             they
             .
          
           
             About
             this
             Pulpit
             then
             ,
             let
             's
             quickly
             sound
             ,
          
           
             All
             Learned
             Men
             in
             these
             great
             things
             profound
             .
          
           
             Th'
             unlook'd
             for
             Counsel
             all
             the
             Assembly
             scar'd
             ,
          
           
             But
             made
             an
             Earthquake
             in
             Fat
             Everard
             ;
          
           
             Who
             shaking
             with
             astonishment
             and
             rage
             ,
          
           
             How
             I
             (
             said
             he
             )
             turn
             School-boy
             in
             my
             Age
             ?
          
           
             Do
             thou
             look
             pale
             ,
             and
             wither
             o're
             a
             Book
             ,
          
           
             I
             ne're
             so
             much
             as
             on
             the
             Bible
             look
             .
          
           
             I
             only
             Study
             when
             our
             Rents
             are
             due
             ,
          
           
             When
             Leases
             fall
             ,
             and
             Tenants
             shou'd
             renew
             .
          
           
             Books
             I
             abhor
             ,
             they
             fill
             the
             Church
             with
             Schisms
             ;
          
           
             Much
             mischief
             we
             have
             had
             from
             Syllogisms
             .
          
           
             If
             to
             Religion
             you
             wou'd
             Converts
             make
             ,
          
           
             Burn
             Books
             and
             Men
             say
             I
             ,
             and
             use
             a
             Stake
             .
          
           
             I
             will
             not
             vex
             my
             Head
             ,
             my
             Arm
             alone
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             without
             Latin
             throw
             this
             Pulpit
             down
             .
          
           
             I
             care
             not
             what
             Heretique
             Rascals
             say
             ;
          
           
             What
             troubles
             me
             I
             'll
             throw
             out
             o'
             my
             way
             .
          
           
             So
             let
             's
             prepare
             for
             the
             Renown'd
             design
             ,
          
           
             And
             when
             accomplish'd
             ,
             plentifully
             Dine
             .
          
           
             No
             sooner
             the
             word
             Dinner
             past
             their
             Ears
             ,
          
           
             Than
             up
             their
             Stomachs
             rose
             ,
             down
             fell
             their
             fears
             .
          
           
           
             But
             than
             the
             Chanter
             none
             more
             bold
             and
             great
             ,
          
           
             Said
             he
             ,
             this
             Tub
             too
             long
             has
             made
             us
             sweat
             .
          
           
             Do
             Deans
             fear
             Dust
             ,
             they
             must
             be
             cas'd
             like
             Clocks
             ?
          
           
             Wou'd
             they
             like
             Cent'ries
             awe
             us
             from
             a
             Box
             ?
          
           
             In
             our
             Church
             Pillar
             is
             some
             rottenness
             spread
             ,
          
           
             To
             hide
             himself
             he
             wou'd
             be
             Wainscotted
             ?
          
           
             My
             Vengeance
             on
             this
             Foppery
             I
             'll
             throw
             ;
          
           
             And
             an
             Hours
             Fasting
             on
             the
             work
             bestow
             .
          
           
             This
             done
             at
             once
             we
             'll
             break
             our
             Fast
             ,
             and
             Dine
             ,
          
           
             And
             two
             fair
             Meals
             with
             both
             their
             portions
             join
             .
          
           
             By
             this
             inspir'd
             ,
             the
             haughty
             Champions
             go
          
           
             With
             an
             audacious
             Zeal
             to
             charge
             the
             Foe
             .
          
           
             The
             Walls
             vain
             aid
             to
             the
             poor
             Engine
             lent
             ,
          
           
             The
             Nails
             in
             vain
             their
             Iron
             Fingers
             bent
             ,
          
           
             The
             Champions
             vanquisht
             all
             resistance
             found
             .
          
           
             The
             batter'd
             Engine
             fell
             with
             many
             a
             Wound
             .
          
           
             Antichrist
             never
             had
             such
             dreadful
             blows
             ,
          
           
             From
             mighty
             Priests
             who
             were
             his
             bitter
             Foes
             ,
          
           
             For
             as
             this
             Pulpit
             was
             ,
             he
             's
             wondrous
             high
             ,
          
           
             A
             great
             Usurper
             of
             Church
             Vanity
             .
          
           
             Therefore
             have
             many
             rail'd
             at
             him
             aloud
             ,
          
           
             He
             will
             let
             no
             Man
             but
             himself
             be
             proud
             .
          
           
             Now
             the
             Dean's
             State
             of
             late
             so
             high
             and
             great
             ,
          
           
             Once
             more
             is
             in
             a
             Sea
             of
             Darkness
             set
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .