When the fierce Priest his Doctrine hard unbuckles,
That in the passion he should hurt his knuckles:
Nay, in the Church-yard too was no small throng,
And on the window-barres in swarms they hung:
Nay, I could see that many Short-hand wrote,
Where listning well, I could not hear a jote;
Friend, this is strange, quoth I, but he reply’d,
Alas! your ears are yet unsanctify’d.
But Sermon’s done, and evening now approaches,
The people walk, for none dare go in coaches;