Twas still a church, for they in coffins drinke[112];
As if twere congruous that the ancients lye
Close by those alters in whose faith they dye.
Now yee beleeve the Church hath good varietye
Of monuments, when inns have such satiety;
But nothing lesse: ther’s no inscription there,
But the church-wardens names of the last yeare:
Instead of saints in windowes and on walls,
Here bucketts hang, and there a cobweb falls:
Would you not sweare they love antiquity,