Are preparing their beaks to begin.
Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,
Flock round when the harvest’s in play,
And not minding the farmer’s distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.
Go, number the locusts in heaven,
On their way to some titheable shore;
And when so many parsons you’ve given,
We still shall be craving for more.
Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye