They are so hard-hearted here too,
They will not dye, there's nothing got by Burials.
Lop.
Diego, the Air's too pure, they cannot perish.
To have a thin Stipend, and an everlasting Parish,
Lord what a torment 'tis!
Die.
Good sensible Master,
You are allow'd to pray against all weathers,
(Both foul, and fair, as you shall find occasion)