To see the pace, the looks, and every motion
O’th Sunday Levite when up stairs he march’t,
And first beheld his little band stiff-starcht,
Two caps he had, and turns up that within,
You’d think he wore a black pot tipt with tin,
His cuffs asham’d peept only out at ’s wrist
For they saw whiter gloves upon his fist,
Out comes his kerchief then which he unfolds
As gravely as his Text, and fast he holds,
In’s wrath-denouncing hand; then mark when he pray’d