From wearing flat Brogues, made of nasty hard Leather,
From wearing slight Trowsers, which scarce hang together;
Libera nos, Domine.
From going bare-foot, both Summer and Winter;
From wearing a Smock till it’s whiter than Tinder;
From Poets, whose Parts will never reach Pindar;
Libera nos, Domine.
From Knights of the Post against Innocents swearing,
From Doxies, whose Mouths for raw Flesh are staring;
And from their Presumption of Mens Breeches wearing;