Mercurius Ecclesiasticus: OR, DOCTOR COUSINS HIS VISITATION At Warrington in Lancashire, with divers PRESENTMENTS and CENSURES therein passed.  
TOGETHER With a true Story of the READER of LIVERPOOLE his twice over wronged Breeches, brought before the said Doctor there.  
— nec scombros metuentia carmina—  
Jan: 7th 1644 Printed in the year 1645.   

Doctor COUSINS his Visitation at Warington in Lancashire: with a true story of the Reader of Liverpoole his double-wronged Breeches brought before him there.  

THE plunder-Church year 'twas, whence York  
Sent forth those Harpies of her Kirke  
Esdall, Wickam, and Cousins:  
The last was he that then fate on  
The skorners Bench at Warington,  
to sell sin by the dozen.   

Had you but heard this Dragon roar  
So fare 'bove that of Eglimore,  
or seen this rampant Priest  
Ttample the Puritan, you would  
Have sworn him one of th'very brood  
come out o'the mouth o'th' Beast:   

In the first place, his long Oration  
Was spent o'th' King's late Declaration,  
that none should dare to Preach  
Against Arminian points, but that  
They should press Gospel truths, whence flat  
he did enjoin to teach.   

All men's salvation that would will  
Grace's receipt: he showed the ill  
of Lectures, Repetitions,  
Afternoon Sermons, and the blame  
Of other form than What's your Name,  
or on that, Expositions.   

All unbookd prayers he could not see,  
To be aught else but blasphemy,  
what? on the spirit to father  
An abortive prayer, whereunto  
The Canon was not Midwife, no  
nor Holy Church the mother?   

The Doctor the presentments all,  
With fury tore in pieces small,  
that brought in omnia bene;  
Charged them to make a new report,  
The reason was unto the Court,  
they were not wotth a penny.   

In the presentments that were brought,  
One was so saucy, or ill taught,  
at the Altar for to lean;  
From the Churchyard hedge was one had pluked  
A twig to still her child that sucked,  
ah, sacrilegious Quean.   

A Butcher his unhallowed Calf  
To the Churchyard stile had tied safe,  
all must their penance do;  
Another for adultery  
Escaped much better, for that he  
rapt out an oath or two.   

A rich-nosed Host appeared being drunk,  
He wished all Puritans were sunk  
in their New-England passage;  
The Doctor did conclude the man,  
No Church embroiling Puritan,  
he knew it by his visage.   

And so he scaped, paying his fees,  
So did not he, but lost a Fleece  
with's Neighbour that durst pray;  
A Minister called Sabath Clerk  
The Doctor rebaptised, took's mark,  
and called him Saturday.   

A Reader 'mong the rest he spied,  
Blue were his Breeches which the tide  
o'the Doctor's rage did sell;  
He stamped and stared, and grew stark mad  
The adventure dire and story sad,  
I mean you (here) to tell   

It was a four-pound right Sir John,  
That Service read at L'erpoole Town,  
His name was John Wain-wright;  
Had that been too his occupation,  
It had been better for the Nation  
(with many a such like Wight.)   

His Masterpiece and highest praise,  
'Twas bidding right the Holidays  
and chanting out procession;  
Kersning, burying, marrying fair,  
Giving good morrow to Master Mayor,  
tho' in the midst o'th' Lesson.   

He passed for a quiet soul,  
And no man's foe, did not control  
his parish'ners in their sports;  
The Pipers faithful advocate,  
And Beare-heards too, had no man's hate,  
was free to all resorts.   

Withal he dear loved a cup,  
And of it often deep would sup,  
and then as oft besh— him;  
And now his thoughts were all upon  
The approaching Visitation,  
and how there to acquit him.   

Fraught with his Orders, Licence, Fees,  
His Coat Canonical (tho' frieze)  
a Churchwarden went too,  
Who with a Wallet was so loaden,  
Before that many a mile they'd trodden,  
the Priest he 'gan to sue.   

To bear the box of the presentments,  
So on they went without resentments  
to Ranehill till they came,  
An Alehouse (there) stood by the way  
Which soon invited them to stay,  
the Ale was of good fame.   

They called so oft for tother cup,  
That all the Ale was quite drunk up,  
save what untuned remained;  
To that they fell, the night grew on,  
Their thoughts were quenched towards Warrington,  
the Priest's breech was ill stained.   

Both sound drunk, to bed they'll go,  
The Rooms o'th' house were ordered so,  
that the good wife was feign  
In the same room to cool her grout  
Where they both lay (sans fear or doubt)  
the chance was Master Wain,   

Right laid his wronged breeches doewn  
Upon the very selfsame Cowme,  
wherein the working Ale was;  
Doubtless he took it seeing th'froth  
For a round table and white cloth,  
however, it came to pass   

The Breeches fitter much for Lee,  
Grew steeped in Ale for company,  
and with the owner drunk,  
So weighty were the boxes, fees,  
Sinful presentments, that to th' Lees,  
no marvel if they sunk.   

The Ale in triumph o'er such spoils,  
Swelled high and mantled, but those broils  
't'ad quickly again a laid;  
No marvel, now 'twas impossession  
Without abatement, strife or question  
of the reckoning not yet paid.   

Besides, hereby the stream i'th' breech  
Returned unto its spring, by which  
it was repaired again,  
And the presentments being drowned,  
That to it a foe might have been found  
it needed not complain.   

The Curate and the Warden both  
Steeped as they were in Barley broth,  
felt neither ache nor stitches,  
They'd tune a medicine for the fleas,  
Feared not the next days hard release,  
but lay still as the Breeches.   

The morning comes, they both arise,  
Say o'er the Creed and rub their eyes,  
mean quickly to be packing,  
The Reader ready to put on  
His Breeches, but he found anon  
(woe worth him) they were lacking   

He sought them all the room about  
In every place save in the Grout;  
who would them there suppose?  
The Ale looked just as did o'er night,  
Undrunk, no secrets to the light  
would it all disclose.   

The Constable was sent for soon,  
The Priest cried out he was undone,  
the fees, presentments lost;  
Orders, Licence, all were gone,  
Which many a year he had lived upon,  
and many a groat had cost.   

He charged the Host t' have stolen them all,  
It booted not to whine or brawl,  
at length it was concluded,  
Rather than not to make appearance,  
The Reader should put on Hodge Laurence  
his Breeches tho' th' were blew-died.   

Laurence the presentments gone,  
Liked not t' appear at Warrington,  
but was content to stay  
In soccage for the shot unpaid,  
While the Curate with his breech arrayed  
would bear the heat o' th' day.   

Which proved not small I can assure ye,  
For why? the Doctor grew in fury,  
at the strange Breeches hue;  
He asked what mot'ly gull it was  
That there did dare to show his face,  
in  thus black and blue.   

Whether holy Orders he had ta'en?  
Where he officiated? what lane  
or hedge-priest he might be?  
The silly man being quite confounded  
With shame and horror, all surrounded  
fell down upon his knee:   

Told him the whole, how he came out  
Clothed all in black from head to foot,  
but had been robbed, (alas)  
His Breeches, Orders, Fees were gone,  
Presentments too, not he alone  
but th' Court a loser was.   

When of this sacrilegious charge,  
The Doctor was informed at large,  
he vowed that he would make  
The Host a most example dread  
of justice, as had ever head  
or hand in plot so black.   

Immediately he sent a Summoner:  
The Catchpole was no sooner come near  
to the suspected place,  
But in the turning of her Grout,  
The Wife had found the Breeches out,  
howbeit, in woeful case.   

But when the whole was fully known,  
And 'bout the Town in rumour blown,  
the Doctor did assay,  
The Stinking stir to have referred,  
By him and's fellows to be heard,  
and cleanly made away.   

The Host and Hostess they cried, no,  
But to the common Law they'd go,  
at Derby Court they'd try it:  
Two Actions they had anent him,  
Whereby they'd make him to repent him,  
and he should dearly buy it.   

One was of slander of their housing,  
Th' other 'twas the brewing losing;  
whereto the Priest did plead.  
The house it had (with many a curse)  
Of many a guest oft picked the purse  
by its large reckon made.   

And for the Ale he proved it clear,  
They'd sold it off as soon, and dear  
as any other brewing;  
And that it was more strong and stolen  
And much the more canonical,  
by th' aforesaid Breeches stewing.   

This doubled suit was often traversed,  
Renewed again, and again reversed,  
until to one o'th' Quorum,  
It was referred as Umpire sage  
With other two, 
Two belonging to the Court.  it to assuage,  
will Oufald and John Orum.   

Who ended it with much ado,  
After both sides began to rue.  
the Lawyers many Quiblets,  
By turning (as the Proverb says)  
The Hare's head (as in such like frays)  
unto the Wild-goose Giblets.   
FINIS.