The short man’s shoulder bore the tall man’s elbow,
Nor he so much as call’d him Scurvy fellow,
Wrath was forgot, all anger was forborn,
Although his neighbour trod upon his corn;
And in a word, all men were meek and humble,
Nor dar’d the Sexton, though unfeed, to grumble;
He honest man went with his neck a skew,
Gingling his bunch of keys from pew to pew;
Good man to ’s Market-day he bore no spleen,
But wish’d the seven dayes had Sabbaths been;