ITER BOREALE.
Foure clerkes of Oxford, doctours two, and two
That would be doctors, having lesse to do
With Augustine then with Galen in vacation,
Chang’d studyes, and turn’d bookes to recreation:
And on the tenth of August, northward bent
A journey, not so soon conceiv’d as spent.
The first halfe day they rode, they light upon
A noble cleargy host, Kitt Middleton[82];
Who, numb’ring out good dishes with good tales,
The major part o’ th’ cheere weigh’d downe the scales:
And though the countenance makes the feast, (say bookes,)
Wee nere found better welcome with worse lookes.
Here wee pay’d thankes and parted; and at night
Had entertainement, all in one mans right[83],
At Flore, a village; where our tenant shee,
Sharp as a winters morning, feirce yet free,
With a leane visage, like a carved face
On a court cupboard, offer’d up the place.
Shee pleas’d us well; but, yet, her husband better;
A harty fellow, and a good bone-setter[84].
Now, whether it were providence or lucke,
Whether the keepers or the stealers bucke,
There wee had ven’son; such as Virgill slew
When he would feast Æneas and his crew.
Here wee consum’d a day; and the third morne
To Daintry with a land-wind were wee borne.
It was the market and the lecture-day,
For lecturers sell sermons, as the lay
Doe sheep and oxen; have their seasons just
For both their marketts: there wee dranke downe dust.
In th’ interim comes a most officious drudge[85],
His face and gowne drawne out with the same budge;
His pendant pouch, which was both large and wide,
Lookt like a letters-patent by his side:
He was as awfull, as he had bin sent
From Moses with th’ elev’nth commandement;
And one of us he sought; a sonne of Flore
He must bid stand, and challendge for an hower.
The doctors both were quitted of that feare,
The one was hoarce, the other was not there;
Wherefore him of the two he seazed, best
Able to answere him of all the rest:
Because hee neede but ruminate that ore
Which he had chew’d the Sabbath-day before.
And though he were resolv’d to doe him right,
For Mr. Balyes sake, and Mr. Wright[86],
Yet he dissembled that the mace did erre;
That he nor deacon was, nor minister.
No! quoth the serjeant; sure then, by relation,
You have a licence, sir, or toleration:
And if you have no orders ’tis the better,
So you have Dods Præcepts, or Cleavers Letters[87].
Thus looking on his mace, and urging still
Twas Mr. Wrights and Mr. Bayleyes will
That hee should mount; at last he condiscended
To stopp the gapp; and so the treaty ended.
The sermon pleas’d, and, when we were to dine,
Wee all had preachers wages, thankes and wine.
Our next dayes stage was Lutterworth[88], a towne
Not willing to be noted or sett downe
By any traveller; for, when w’ had bin
Through at both ends, wee could not finde an inne:
Yet, for the church sake, turne and light wee must,
Hoping to see one dramme of Wickliffs dust[89];
But wee found none: for underneath the pole
Noe more rests of his body then his soule.
Abused martyr! how hast thou bin torne
By two wilde factions! First, the Papists burne
Thy bones for hate; the Puritans, in zeale,
They sell thy marble, and thy brasse they steale.
A parson[90] mett us there, who had good store
Of livings, some say, but of manners more;
In whose streight chearefull age a man might see
Well govern’d fortune, bounty wise and free.
He was our guide to Leister, save one mile,
There was his dwelling, where wee stay’d awhile,
And dranke stale beere, I thinke was never new,
Which the dun wench that brought it us did brew.
And now wee are at Leister, where wee shall
Leape ore six steeples, and one hospitall
Twice told; but those great landmarkes I referr
To Camdens eye, Englands chorographer.
Let mee observe that almesmans heraldrye,
Who being ask’d, what Henry that should be
That was their founder, duke of Lancaster,
Answer’d: Twas John of Gaunt, I assure you, sir;
And so confuted all the walles, which sayd
Henry of Grisemond this foundation layd.
The next thing to be noted was our cheere,
Enlarg’d, with seav’ne and sixpence bread and beere!
But, oh you wretched tapsters as you are,
Who reckon by our number, not your ware,
And sett false figures for all companyes,
Abusing innocent meales with oathes and lyes;
Forbeare your coos’nage to Divines that come,
Least they be thought to drinke up all your summe.
Spare not the Laity in your reckoning thus,
But sure your theft is scandalous to us.
Away, my muse, from this base subject, know
Thy Pegasus nere strooke his foote soe low.
Is not th’ usurping Richard buryed here,
That king of hate, and therefore slave of feare;
Dragg’d from the fatall feild Bosworth, where hee
Lost life, and, what he liv’d for,—cruelty?
Search; find his name: but there is none. Oh kings!
Remember whence your power and vastnesse springs;
If not as Richard now, so shall you bee;
Who hath no tombe, but scorne and memorye.
And though that Woolsey from his store might save
A pallace, or a colledge for his grave,
Yet there he lyes interred as if all
Of him to be remembred were his fall.
Nothing but earth to earth, no pompeous waight
Upon him, but a pibble or a quaite.
If thou art thus neglected, what shall wee[91]
Hope after death, who are but shreads of thee?
Hold! William calls to horse; William is hee,
Who, though he never saw threescore and three,
Ore-reckons us in age, as he before
In drink, and will baite nothing of foure score:
And he commands, as if the warrant came
From the great earle himselfe of Nottingham.
There wee crost Trent, and on the other side
Prayd to Saint Andrew; and up hill wee ride.
Where wee observ’d the cunning men, like moles,
Dwell not in howses, but were earth’t in holes;
So did they not builde upwards, but digg thorough,
As hermitts caves, or conyes do their borough:
Great underminers sure as any where;
Tis thought the Powder-traitors practis’d there.
Would you not thinke the men stood on their heads,
When gardens cover howses there, like leades;
And on the chymneyes topp the mayd may know
Whether her pottage boyle or not, below;
There cast in hearbes, and salt, or bread; their meate
Contented rather with the smoake then heate?
This was the Rocky-Parish; higher stood
Churches and houses, buildings stone and wood;
Crosses not yet demolish’t; and our Ladye
With her armes on, embracing her whole Baby[92].
Where let us note, though those are northerne parts,
The Crosse finds in them more then southerne hearts.
The Castle’s next; but what shall I report
Of that which is a ruine, was a fort?
The gates two statues keepe, which gyants[93] are,
To whome it seemes committed was the care
Of the whole downfall. If it be your fault;
If you are guilty; may king Davids vault[94],
Or Mortimers darke hole[95], contain you both[96]!
A just reward for so prophane a sloth.
And if hereafter tidings shall be brought
Of any place or office to be bought,
And the left lead, or unwedg’d timber yet
Shall pass by your consent to purchase it;
May your deformed bulkes endure the edge
Of axes, feele the beetle and the wedge!
May all the ballads be call’d in and dye,
Which sing the warrs of Colebrand and sir Guy!
Oh you that doe Guild-hall and Holmeby keepe
Soe carefully, when both the founders sleepe,
You are good giants, and partake no shame
With those two worthlesse trunkes of Nottinghame:
Looke to your severall charges; wee must goe,
Though greiv’d at heart to leave a castle so.
The Bull-head[97] is the word, and wee must eate;
Noe sorrow can descend soe deepe as meate:
So to the inne wee come; where our best cheere
Was, that his grace of Yorke had lodged there:
Hee was objected to us when wee call,
Or dislike ought: “My lords grace” answers all:
“Hee was contented with this bed, this dyett.”
That keepes our discontented stomackes quiett.
The inne-keeper was old, fourescore allmost,
Indeede an embleme rather then an host;
In whome wee read how God and Time decree
To honour thrifty ostlers, such as hee.
For in the stable first he did begin;
Now see hee is sole lord of the whole inne:
Mark the encrease of straw and hay, and how,
By thrift, a bottle may become a mow.
Marke him, all you that have the golden itch,
All whome God hath condemned to be rich[98].
Farwell, glad father of thy daughter Maris,
Thou ostler-phœnix, thy example rare is.
Wee are for Newarke after this sad talke;
And whither tis noe journey, but a walke.
Nature is wanton there, and the high-way
Seem’d to be private, though it open lay;
As if some swelling lawyer, for his health,
Or frantick usurer, to tame his wealth,
Had chosen out ten miles by Trent, to trye
Two great effects of art and industry.
The ground wee trodd was meddow, fertile land,
New trimm’d and levell’d by the mowers hand;
Above it grew a roke, rude, steepe, and high,
Which claimes a kind of reverence from the eye:
Betwixt them both there glides a lively streame,
Not loud, but swifte: Mæander was a theame
Crooked and rough; but had the poetts seene
Straight, even Trent, it had immortall bin.
This side the open plaine admitts the sunne
To halfe the river; there did silver runne:
The other halfe ran clowdes; where the curl’d wood
With his exalted head threaten’d the floude.
Here could I wish us ever passing by
And never past; now Newarke is too nigh:
And as a Christmas seemes a day but short,
Deluding time with revells and good sport;
So did these beauteous mixtures us beguile,
And the whole twelve, being travail’d, seem’d a mile.
Now as the way was sweet, soe was the end;
Our passage easy, and our prize a friend[99],
Whome there wee did enjoy; and for whose sake,
As for a purer kinde of coyne, men make
Us liberall welcome; with such harmony
As the whole towne had bin his family.
Mine host of the next inne did not repine
That wee preferr’d the Heart, and past his signe:
And where wee lay, the host and th’ hostesse faine
Would shew our love was aym’d at, not their gaine:
The very beggars were s’ ingenious,
They rather prayd for him, then begg’d of us.
And, soe the Doctors friends will please to stay,
The Puritans will let the organs play.
Would they pull downe the gallery, builded new,
With the church-wardens seat and Burleigh-pew,
Newarke, for light and beauty, might compare
With any church, but what cathedralls are.
To this belongs a vicar[100], who succeded
The friend I mention’d; such a one there needed;
A man whose tongue and life is eloquent,
Able to charme those mutinous heads of Trent,
And urge the Canon home, when they conspire
Against the crosse and bells with swords and fire.
There stood a Castle, too; they shew us here
The roome where the King slep’t[101], the window where
He talk’t with such a lord, how long he staid
In his discourse, and all, but what he said.
From hence, without a perspective, wee see
Bever and Lincolne, where wee faine would bee;
But that our purse and horses both are bound
Within the circuite of a narrower ground.
Our purpose is all homeward, and ’twas time
At parting to have witt, as well as rime;
Full three a clock, and twenty miles to ride,
Will aske a speedy horse, and a sure guide;
Wee wanted both: and Loughborow may glory,
Errour hath made it famous in our story.
Twas night, and the swifte horses of the Sunne
Two houres before our jades their race had runn;
Noe pilott moone, nor any such kinde starre
As governd those wise men that came from farre
To holy Bethlem; such lights had there bin,
They would have soone convay’d us to an inne;
But all were wandring-starrs; and wee, as they,
Were taught noe course, but to ride on and stray.
When (oh the fate of darknesse, who hath tride it)
Here our whole fleete is scatter’d and divided;
And now wee labour more to meete, then erst
Wee did to lodge; the last cry drownes the first:
Our voyces are all spent, and they that follow
Can now no longer track us by the hollow;
They curse the formost, wee the hindmost, both
Accusing with like passion, hast, and sloth.
At last, upon a little towne wee fall,
Where some call drinke, and some a candle call:
Unhappy wee, such stragglers as wee are
Admire a candle offner then a starre:
Wee care not for those glorious lampes a loofe,
Give us a tallow-light and a dry roofe.
And now wee have a guide wee cease to chafe,
And now w’ have time to pray the rest be safe.
Our guide before cryes Come, and wee the while
Ride blindfold, and take bridges for a stile:
Till at the last wee overcame the darke,
And spight of night and errour hitt the marke.
Some halfe howre after enters the whole tayle,
As if they were committed to the jayle:
The constable, that tooke them thus divided,
Made them seeme apprehended, and not guided:
Where, when wee had our fortunes both detested,
Compassion made us friends, and so wee rested.
’Twas quickly morning, though by our short stay
Wee could not find that wee had lesse to pay.
All travellers, this heavy judgement heare:
“A handsome hostesse makes the reckoning deare;”
Her smiles, her wordes, your purses must requite them,
And every wellcome from her, adds an item.
Glad to be gon from thence at any rate,
For Bosworth wee are horst: Behold the state
Of mortall men! Foule Errour is a mother,
And, pregnant once, doth soone bring forth an other;
Wee, who last night did learne to loose our way,
Are perfect since, and farther out next day.
And in a forrest[102] having travell’d sore,
Like wandring Bevis ere hee found the bore;
Or as some love-sick lady oft hath donne,
Ere shee was rescued by the Knight of th’ Sunne:
Soe are wee lost, and meete no comfort then
But carts and horses, wiser then the men.
Which is the way? They neyther speake nor point;
Their tongues and fingers both were out of joynt:
Such monsters by Coal-Orton bankes there sitt,
After their resurrection from the pitt.
Whilst in this mill wee labour and turne round
As in a conjurers circle, William found
A menes for our deliverance: Turne your cloakes,
Quoth hee, for Puck is busy in these oakes:
If ever yee at Bosworth will be found,
Then turne your cloakes, for this is Fayry-ground.
But, ere this witchcraft was perform’d, wee mett
A very man, who had no cloven feete;
Though William, still of little faith, doth doubt
Tis Robin, or some sprite that walkes about:
Strike him, quoth hee, and it will turne to ayre;
Crosse your selves thrice and strike it: Strike that dare,
Thought I, for sure this massy forrester
In stroakes will prove the better conjurer.
But twas a gentle keeper, one that knew
Humanity, and manners where they grew;
And rode along soe farr till he could say,
See yonder Bosworth stands, and this your way.
And now when wee had swett ’twixt sunn and sunn,
And eight miles long to thirty broad had spun;
Wee learne the just proportion from hence
Of the diameter and circumference.
That night yet made amends; our meat and sheetes
Were farr above the promise of those streetes;
Those howses, that were tilde with straw and mosse,
Profest but weake repaire for that dayes losse
Of patience: yet this outside lets us know,
The worthyest things make not the bravest show:
The shott was easy; and what concernes us more,
The way was so; mine host doth ride before.
Mine host was full of ale and history;
And on the morrow when hee brought us nigh
Where the two Roses[103] joyn’d, you would suppose,
Chaucer nere made the Romant of the Rose.
Heare him. See yee yon wood? There Richard lay,
With his whole army: Looke the other way,
And loe where Richmond in a bed of gorsse
Encampt himselfe ore night, and all his force:
Upon this hill they mett. Why, he could tell
The inch where Richmond stood, where Richard fell:
Besides what of his knowledge he could say,
He had authenticke notice from the Play;
Which I might guesse, by’s mustring up the ghosts,
And policyes, not incident to hosts;
But cheifly by that one perspicuous thing,
Where he mistooke a player for a king.
For when he would have sayd, King Richard dyed,
And call’d—A horse! a horse!—he, Burbidge cry’de[104].
Howere his talke, his company pleas’d well;
His mare went truer then his chronicle;
And even for conscience sake, unspurr’d, unbeaten,
Brought us six miles, and turn’d tayle at Nuneaton.
From thence to Coventry, where wee scarcely dine;
Our stomackes only warm’d with zeale and wine:
And then, as if wee were predestin’d forth,
Like Lot from Sodome, fly to Killingworth.
The keeper of the castle was from home,
Soe that halfe mile wee lost; yet when wee come
An host receiv’d us there, wee’l nere deny him,
My lord of Leisters man; the parson by him,
Who had no other proofe to testify
He serv’d the Lord, but age and baudery[105].
Away, for shame, why should foure miles devide
Warwicke and us? They that have horses ride.
A short mile from the towne, an humble shrine[106]
At foote of an high rock consists, in signe
Of Guy and his devotions; who there stands
Ugly and huge, more then a man on ’s hands:
His helmett steele, his gorgett mayl, his sheild
Brass, made the chappell fearefull as a feild.
And let this answere all the Popes complaints;
Wee sett up gyants though wee pull downe saintes.
Beyond this, in the roadway as wee went,
A pillar stands, where this Colossus leant;
Where he would sigh and love, and, for hearts ease,
Oftimes write verses (some say) such as these:
“Here will I languish in this silly bower,
Whilst my true love triumphes in yon high tower.”
No other hinderance now, but wee may passe
Cleare to our inne: Oh there an hostesse was,
To whome the Castle and the Dun Cow are
Sights after dinner; shee is morning ware.
Her whole behaviour borrowed was, and mixt,
Halfe foole, halfe puppet, and her pace betwixt
Measure and jigge; her court’sy was an honour;
Her gate, as if her neighbour had out-gon her.
Shee was barrd up in whale-bones which doe leese
None of the whales length; for they reach’d her knees:
Off with her head, and then shee hath a middle:
As her wast stands, shee lookes like the new fiddle,
The favorite Theorbo, (truth to tell yee,)
Whose neck and throat are deeper then the belly[107].
Have you seene monkyes chain’d about the loynes,
Or pottle-potts with rings? Just soe shee joynes
Her selfe together: A dressing shee doth love
In a small print below, and text above.
What though her name be King, yet tis noe treason,
Nor breach of statute, for to aske the reason
Of her brancht ruffe, a cubit every poke:
I seeme to wound her, but shee strook the stroke
At our departure; and our worshipps there
Pay’d for our titles deare as any where:
Though beadles and professors both have done,
Yet every inne claimes augmentation.
Please you walke out and see the Castle[108]? Come,
The owner saith, it is a schollers home;
A place of strength and health: in the same fort,
You would conceive a castle and a court.
The orchards, gardens, rivers, and the aire,
Doe with the trenches, rampires, walls, compare:
It seemes nor art nor force can intercept it,
As if a lover built, a souldier kept it.
Up to the tower, though it be steepe and high,
Wee doe not climbe but walke; and though the eye
Seeme to be weary, yet our feet are still
In the same posture cozen’d up the hill:
And thus the workemans art deceaves our sence,
Making those rounds of pleasure a defence.
As wee descend, the lord of all this frame,
The honorable Chancellour, towards us came[109].
Above the hill there blew a gentle breath,
Yet now we see a gentler gale beneath.
The phrase and wellcome of this knight did make
The seat more elegant; every word he spake
Was wine and musick, which he did expose
To us, if all our art could censure those.
With him there was a prelate[110], by his place
Arch-deacon to the byshopp, by his face
A greater man; for that did counterfeit
Lord abbot of some covent standing yet,
A corpulent relique: marry and tis sinne
Some Puritan gets not his face call’d in;
Amongst leane brethren it may scandall bring,
Who seeke for parity in every thing.
For us, let him enjoy all that God sends,
Plenty of flesh, of livings, and of freinds.
Imagine here us ambling downe the street,
Circling in Flower, making both ends meet:
Where wee fare well foure dayes, and did complain,
Like harvest folkes, of weather and the raine:
And on the feast of Barthol’mew wee try
What revells that saint keepes at Banbury[111].
In th’ name of God, Amen! First to begin,
The altar was translated to an inne;
Wee lodged in a chappell by the signe,
But in a banquerupt taverne by the wine:
Besides, our horses usage made us thinke
Twas still a church, for they in coffins drinke[112];
As if twere congruous that the ancients lye
Close by those alters in whose faith they dye.
Now yee beleeve the Church hath good varietye
Of monuments, when inns have such satiety;
But nothing lesse: ther’s no inscription there,
But the church-wardens names of the last yeare:
Instead of saints in windowes and on walls,
Here bucketts hang, and there a cobweb falls:
Would you not sweare they love antiquity,
Who brush the quire for perpetuity?
Whilst all the other pavement and the floore
Are supplicants to the surveyors power
Of the high wayes, that he would gravell keepe;
For else in winter sure it will be deepe.
If not for Gods, for Mr. Wheatlyes sake
Levell the walkes; suppose these pittfalls make
Him spraine a lecture, or misplace a joynt
In his long prayer, or his fiveteenth point:
Thinke you the dawes or stares can sett him right?
Surely this sinne upon your heads must light.
And say, beloved, what unchristian charme
Is this? you have not left a legg or arme
Of an apostle: think you, were they whole,
That they would rise, at least assume a soule?
If not, ’tis plaine all the idolatry
Lyes in your folly, not th’ imagery.
Tis well the pinnacles are falne in twaine;
For now the divell, should he tempt againe,
Hath noe advantage of a place soe high:
Fooles, he can dash you from your gallery,
Where all your medly meete; and doe compare,
Not what you learne, but who is longest there;
The Puritan, the Anabaptist, Brownist,
Like a grand sallet: Tinkers, what a towne ist?
The crosses also, like old stumps of trees,
Are stooles for horsemen that have feeble knees;
Carry noe heads above ground: They which tell,
That Christ hath nere descended into hell,
But to the grave, his picture buried have
In a far deeper dungeon then a grave:
That is, descended to endure what paines
The divell can think, or such disciples braines.
No more my greife, in such prophane abuses
Good whipps make better verses then the muses.
Away, and looke not back; away, whilst yet
The church is standing, whilst the benefitt
Of seeing it remaines; ere long you shall
Have that rac’t downe, and call’d Apocryphal,
And in some barne heare cited many an author,
Kate Stubbs, Anne Askew, or the Ladyes daughter[113];
Which shall be urg’d for fathers. Stopp Disdaine,
When Oxford once appears, Satyre refraine.
Neighbours, how hath our anger thus out gon ’s?
Is not Saint Giles’s this, and that Saint Johns?
Wee are return’d; but just with soe much ore
As Rawleigh from his voyage, and noe more.
Non recito cuiquam nisi amicis, idque coactus,
Non ubivis, coramve quibuslibet.
Hor. lib. i. sat. 4.
ON
MR. RICE,
THE MANCIPLE OF CHRIST-CHURCH IN OXFORD.
Who can doubt, Rice, but to th’ eternall place
Thy soule is fledd, that did but know thy face?
Whose body was soe light, it might have gone
To heav’ne without a resurrection.
Indeed thou wert all type; thy limmes were signes,
Thy arteryes but mathematicke lines:
As if two soules had made thy compound good,
That both should live by faith, and none by blood.
ON
HENRY BOLINGS.
If gentleness could tame the Fates, or wit
Deliver man, Bolings had not di’d yet;
But One which over us in judgment sits,
Doth say our sins are stronger than our wits.
ON
JOHN DAWSON,
BUTLER OF CHRIST-CHURCH.
Dawson the butler’s dead: Although I think
Poets were ne’re infus’d with single drink,
I’ll spend a farthing, muse; a watry verse
Will serve the turn to cast upon his herse.
If any cannot weep amongst us here,
Take off his cup, and so squeeze out a tear.
Weep, O ye barrels! let your drippings fall
In trickling streams; make waste more prodigal
Than when our beer was good, that John may float
To Styx in beer, and lift up Charons boat
With wholsome waves: and, as the conduits ran
With claret at the Coronation,
So let your channels flow with single tiff,
For John, I hope, is crown’d: Take off your whiff,
Ye men of rosemary[114], and drink up all,
Remembring ’tis a butlers funeral:
Had he been master of good double beer,
My life for his, John Dawson had been here.
ON
GREAT TOM OF CHRIST-CHURCH.
Be dumb, ye infant-chimes, thump not your mettle,
That ne’re out-ring a tinker and his kettle;
Cease, all you petty larums; for, to-day
Is young Tom’s resurrection from the clay:
And know, when Tom rings out his knells,
The best of you will be but dinner-bells.
Old Tom’s grown young again, the fiery cave
Is now his cradle, that was erst his grave:
He grew up quickly from his mother earth,
For, all you see was but an hours birth;
Look on him well, my life I dare engage,
You ne’re saw prettier baby of his age.
Some take his measure by the rule, some by
The Jacobs-staff take his profundity,
And some his altitude; but some do swear
Young Tom’s not like the Old: But, Tom, ne’re fear
The critical geometricians line,
If thou as loud as e’re thou did ring’st nine.
Tom did no sooner peep from under-ground,
But straight Saint Maries tenor lost his sound.
O how this may-poles heart did swell
With full main sides of joy, when that crackt bell
Choakt with annoy, and ’s admiration,
Rung like a quart-pot to the congregation.
Tom went his progress lately, and lookt o’re
What he ne’re saw in many years before;
But when he saw the old foundation,
With some like hope of preparation,
He burst with grief; and lest he should not have
Due pomp, he’s his own bell-man to the grave:
And that there might of him be still some mention,
He carried to his grave a new invention.
They drew his brown-bread face on pretty gins,
And made him stalk upon two rolling-pins;
But Sander Hill swore twice or thrice by heaven,
He ne’re set such a loaf into the oven.
And Tom did Sanders vex, his Cyclops maker,
As much as he did Sander Hill, the baker;
Therefore, loud thumping Tom, be this thy pride,
When thou this motto shalt have on thy side:
“Great world! one Alexander conquer’d thee,
And two as mighty men scarce conquer’d me.”
Brave constant spirit, none could make thee turn,
Though hang’d, drawn, quarter’d, till they did thee burn:
Yet not for this, nor ten times more be sorry,
Since thou was martyr’d for the Churches glory;
But for thy meritorious suffering,
Thou shortly shalt to heaven in a string:
And though we griev’d to see thee thump’d and bang’d,
We’ll all be glad, Great Tom, to see thee hang’d.