Bloody News from CHELMSFORD: OR, A Proper New BALLAD, CONTAINING A true and perfect Relation of a most barbarous Murder committed upon the Body of a Country Curate, who dies of a great Wound given him in the bottom of his Belly, by a most Cruel Country-fellow, for being too familiar with his Wife.  
To the Tune of Chevy Chase.  

GIve over, ye rhyming Cavaliers,  
That jeered at every turn;  
And sung how Jane towards Elders Cur  
In flames of love did burn.   

You too that writ how Peter's Hugh,  
Was Butcher's Cuckold-maker;  
Or penned the Courtship passed between  
She-Filly, and the Quaker.   

But come Droll-rampant Hudibras,  
Laureate of Garden-Paris,  
Bring me the great Bruino's spoils,  
(That Champion that so rare is.)   

For I would do as Nero fell  
With Primitive Christians did;  
I'd make a Cassock for my Priest,  
And 〈◊〉 him in Boar's hide.   

In Essex (which like Africa still  
Some Monster is a yielding,  
Where once was bred a Roundheaded Colt,  
And now a Cavalier Gelding.)   

Near Chelmsford Town a certain grave  
Conforming Parson dwelled,  
chaste from the Navel to the Teeth;  
Yet this good man was Gelt.   

Dull Laymen have small reverence  
For any man of worth;  
A Churlish whoreson did the feat:  
Sad Hint for Holderforth!   

He dreaded not his Ghostly face,  
Nor Circle of his Girdle,  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 him like to Traitor, new▪  
Cut down, and laid on Hurdle.   

Now you that would the story know,  
That nothing may escape us,  
Hark how poor Levite came to die  
A Martyr to Priapus.   

There lived a crafty boorish wight  
Near Palace Sacerdotal,  
Whose Spouse most amiable was.  
The Sum of Beauty Total.   

Lovelier than she for whom Jove turned  
Himself to milk-white Bull a:  
Fair Rosamond was not so bright,  
Nor half so comely Trulla.   

〈…〉 o then smiles of Infant day,  
〈◊〉 Servant can●'s to Mistress)  
Ah▪ 'twas the Sorcery of that Face▪  
Led Teacher into distress.   

HE spied her first from Pulpit high  
In pause, the first Prayer after,  
When zeal had turned up white of eye  
To stare on Church's rafter.   

(Quoth he to self,) why stand I here  
(Giving the Glass a jolt)  
To utter Sermon by retail  
Which might be done by Dolt?   

Is not yond Woman purer Text  
To handle then an Homily?  
Sure 'twould be fruitful truth to teach  
Her, duties of a Family.   

Thus having thought, in haste he read  
To people printed lurry;  
Yet, that he could not say't by heart,  
For her sake he was sorry.   

For now at spawling intervals  
His eye did only taste her,  
But race was run with greater speed  
Than Nun says Pater Noster.   

The Swain her Husband all this time  
Watched whilst the Parson Prayed;  
He marked his leers when finger was  
At end of Sentence laid.   

Observed those Arrows shot from sight  
At his fair But were levelled.  
But swore the Priest had better been  
In mother's womb be-diveled.   

Psalms sung, As from Cornelius Tub,  
The Parson came down, reeking;  
And till he found that Hobnails house  
Vowed never to lin seeking.   

At last he came to humble Cot  
Shrine, where his Goddess was  
Doublet of Straw, Breeches of clay,  
And fundament of Grass.   

In Age of Gold, as Poet tells,  
(Who seldom see such day)  
This was the place where Virtue slept  
Upon a lock of Hay.   

The Dame, right busy at her work,  
Sweet butter was a churning;  
When at the motion of the stick  
Priest's bowels fell a yeirning.   

Fair Nymph (said he) incontinent,  
Lay by thy Typical Churn;  
(And then the Varlet turned aside  
To steal a lecherous giern.)   

Fie (Angel blest) why should that hand  
A wooden Instrument hold,  
Designed to wield a better thing  
Than Sceptre made with Gold?   

Excellent Creature! be as kind  
As fair." An heart obdurate,  
" Is Satan's Anvil, where he knocks?  
Shall he knock, and not Curate?   

O Woman, put the devil behind,  
But put the Priest before:  
Full many a She for Cloke-divine,  
Hath done as much, or more.   

When I commenced Bachelor,  
All Cambridg● ●●●ld adore me:  
Why should a thing of feeble Sex  
Think much to fall before me?   

" This said: Nay, Pish, the good Wife cried:  
Nay, stand away, for shame!  
" Are you a Minister, and care;  
No more for a good Name?   

Good Name (quoth he)? with that She smiled;  
And so they snugged together:  
But He had better slept i'th' street,  
Then in her Bed of Feather▪   

For just about that fatal hour  
When devil came for Doctor-  
- Faustus; as Key of Lead had him,  
And in a dead Sleep locked her;   

The jealous Bumpkin blunders in:  
Unseasonable Guest!  
Welcome as stone's in Oats to Horse,  
Or Skull at Egypt Feast.   

O Caitiff vile, said Countryman;  
And catcht him by the throat:  
I'll wreck my malice on thy blood,  
Thou cursed Canonical-Goat.   

" Make me a Cuckold, Reading Rogue!  
" No Pulpit serve but Susan's?  
" Must Susan's Smock your Surplice be?  
" I'll take away that Nuisance.   

" Good husband, (quoth the panting wife)  
" Proceed in wrath no further,  
" Lest you be turned out Churches pale,  
" For one committing murder.   

" Sir, gentle Sir, the Priest replied,  
As well as he could speak▪  
For Peasant held his Gouty Fist  
Hard on his Enemy's Neck.   

As Tunes, when Finger's taken off,  
From Flajolet do come;  
So issued words from Curate's mouth,  
When Lout removed his Thumb.   

" Sir I confess that I have wronged  
You, and your loving wife.  
Confess and hang, cried surly Boor;  
(And straight he drew his Knife.)   

The glittering Blade, as keen as that  
Which F●lton bought near Tower,  
Made Susan's heart go Pit-a-pat,  
And Lovers face look sour.   

" Hold, honest Friend, Sir Roger cried;  
" What? wilt thou take my life?  
" No: but I'll seize those arms wherewith  
Thou hast subdued my Wife.   

Though Theologu ' wept, and Wife did beg,  
Churl slighted words and tears:  
And at one gash from Curate took  
Musket and Bandeliers.   

Thus RUMP in Forest not content  
To fallen down Timber tall,  
Fanatiqu ' Slaves stubbed root and branch,  
Nay, Vnderwoods', and all.   

" Now, Sir, (said Swain) if e'er you chance  
" Hereafter to be Pope,  
" There will not need a sacred Chair  
" Your Holiness to ●rope.   

" Go, go, live abaste, as Clergy should,  
" (Course taken by your betters)  
" But come not near to London-town,  
" For there live Capon-eaters.   

But lo! while Scoundrel thus did taunt  
The man of holy Function,  
Wife well perceived that body spent  
Had need of extreme Unction.   

Then did she wring her sweeting Palms,  
And loudly did complain:  
But sighs and groans, and bellows-snout,  
To dying Bums are vain.   

The blood continually ran  
From place as bare as Common;  
Yet, even then, good Curate cast  
A dying glance at Woman.   

" Farewell, said he: bid Parsons all  
" Beware of Baver's fate:  
" For when they shall be served like me,  
" Their dumps will be too late.   

This said,— the Curates mortal Cask▪  
With Ribbon hooped about▪  
Rolled down the Hill, and slip 〈…〉 Life  
For want of Tap ran out.    

The EPITAPH.  

COurteous Reader! underneath  
These Spires of fading Grass  
Lies Curate, who (if Wives may judge)▪  
An able Preacher was.   

We hope his Soul in Heaven is safe.  
(Though some scarce think so can:)  
For, though he sometimes lived upright,  
He died no Perfect Man.   
FINIS.   

OXFORD▪ Printed in the Year MDCLXIII.