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A SATYR
AGAINST
HIPOCRITES.
TEdious have been our Fasts, and long our Prayers;
To keep the Sabbath such have been our cares,
That Cisly durst not milk the gentle Mulls,
To the great damage of my Lord Mayors Fooles,
Which made the greazie Catchpoles swear and curse
The Holy-day for want o'th'second course;
And men have lost their body's new adorning
Because their cloathes could not come home that morning
The sins of Parlament have long been bawl'd at,
The vices of the City have been yawl'd at,
Yet no amendment; Certainly, thought I,
This is a Paradox beyond all cry.
Why if you ask the people, very proudly
They answer straight, That they are very godly.
Nor could we lawfully suspect the Priest,
Alas, for he cry'd out, I bring you Christ:
And trul' he spoke with so much confidence,
That at that time it seem'd a good pretence:
Then where's the fault? thought I: Well, I must know,
So putting on clean cuffs, to Church I go.
Now 'gan the Bells to jangle in the Steeple,
And in a row to Church went all the People.
First came poor Matrons stuck with Lice like Cloves,
Devoutly come to worship their white loaves;
