Now ’gan the Bells to jangle in the Steeple,
And in a row to Church went all the people.
First came poore Matrons stuck with Lice like Cloves,
Devoutly come to worship their white loaves,
And may be smelt above a German mile.
Well, let them goe to fume the Middle-Ile.
But here’s the sight that doth men good to see’t,
Grave Burghers, with their Posies, Sweet, sweet, sweet,
With their fat Wives. Then comes old Robin too,
Who although write or reade he neither doe,