THE CHARACTER OF A Time-serving Saint: OR, The Hypocrite anatomised, and thoroughly dissected.  
To the Tune of the three Cheaters.  

THe Heavens do frown, the earth doth groan,  
To hear the poor man make his moan:  
The God of love doth hear the cry  
Of the poor widow's misery;  
And eke the fatherless complaint  
Which they make of the formal Saint:   

For they advance themselves in pride,  
And care not what to th' poor betide,  
And all that hold community,  
By them as Ranters counted be.  
But mark me well, and then you'll say,  
No greater Ranters live then they.   

To feed the hungry, and naked cloth,  
It is a work they much do loath.  
They deck themselves in brave attire,  
Whilst poor go wetshod in the mire.  
With laces brave themselves they paint,  
An ornament fit for a Saint.   

Fine Holland under cypress black  
About their neck and down their back:  
Whether it be for warmth or pride,  
I know it's easy to decide.  
But all this while the poor do want  
That which is wasted by the Saint.   

You gentle tailors, that would see  
The newest fashions which there be;  
Do but the meeting place frequent,  
And then you shall have full content.  
For of new fashions there's no want,  
They are so looked for by the Saint.   

You shoemakers, which are complete,  
And fain would fit a foot most neat,  
Unto the Saints assembly go,  
For a high heel, and a long toe,  
Although the poor man's foot go bare,  
New fashioned shoes the Saints will wear.   

Next unto you I shall repeat  
Their superfluity at meat,  
How they must have roast, bakeed and sod,  
As if their belly were their God.  
Preserves and sweetmeats they'll not want;  
O blessed thing to be a Saint!   

Their Jack must run, their Pot must boil,  
Their cookmaid she must sweat and broyl;  
On their lordsday she's made a slave,  
That they their dainty cheer may have,  
Whilst fatherless and hunger faint,  
Such care is had to feed a Saint.   

Whilst they are in the Church, and pray,  
The poor man in the porch doth lay;  
Having no house to hide his head,  
Nothing but straw to make his bed;  
And he in vain doth make complaint;  
For there's no pity in the Saint.   

Now all that know what Ranting means,  
Must needs confess it is those sins,  
When one riotously hath spent  
That which his fellow-creatures want;  
But this the Saints are freqeunt in,  
And guilty of that Ranting sin.   

Now if you think me much too blame,  
I shall not spare to write my name;  
I will not bring myself in thrall;  
Men do me Lionel Lockier call;  
Others by the name of Rant,  
Such holy words flow from the Saint.   
FINIS.