Through at both ends, wee could not finde an inne:
Yet, for the church sake, turne and light wee must,
Hoping to see one dramme of Wickliffs dust[89];
But wee found none: for underneath the pole
Noe more rests of his body then his soule.
Abused martyr! how hast thou bin torne
By two wilde factions! First, the Papists burne
Thy bones for hate; the Puritans, in zeale,
They sell thy marble, and thy brasse they steale.
A parson[90] mett us there, who had good store