My Lord of London hath a Chaplain, Doctor Worral by name; who is scholar good enough, but a kind of free fellow like man, and of no very tender conscience.
Doctor Sibthorp's Sermon was brought unto him; and "hand over head" as the proverb is, he approved it, and subscribed his name unto it: but afterwards, being better advised, he sendeth it to a learned gentleman of the Inner Temple; and writing some few lines unto him, craveth his opinion of that which he had done.
The Gentleman read it; but although he had promised to return his judgement by letter, yet he refused so to do: but desired Doctor Worral would come himself. Which being done, he spake to this purpose, "What have you done? You have allowed a strange book yonder! which, if it be true, there is no Meum or Tuum! no man in England hath anything of his own! If ever the tide turns, and matters be called to a reckoning; you will be hanged for publishing such a book!"
To which, the Doctor answered, "Yea, but my hand is to it! What shall I do?"
For that, the other replied, "You must scrape out your name! and do not suffer so much as the sign of any letter to remain in the paper!"
Which, accordingly he did; and withdrew his finger from the pie.
But what the Chaplain, well advised, would not do; his Lord, without sticking, accomplished: and so, being unsensibly hatched, it came flying into the world!
But in my opinion, the book hath persuaded very few understanding men; and hath not gained the King, sixpence.