Come not to Woodstock, as before,
And Allen’s dead as a nayle-doore,
And so’s old John (eclep’d the poore)
His follower;
Rake Oxford o’re, there’s not a man
That rayse or lay a spirit can,
Or use the circle, or the wand,
Or conjure;
Or can say (Boh!) unto a divell,
Or to a goose that is uncivill,
Nor where Keimbolton purg’d out evill,
’Tis sin sure.
There were two villages hard by,
With teachers of presbytery,
Who knew the house was hidiously
Be-pestred;
But ’lasse! their new divinity
Is not so deep, or not so high;
Their witts doe (as their meanes did) lie
Sequestred;
But Master Joffman was the wight
Which was to exorcise the spright;
Hee’ll preach and pray you day and night
At pleasure.
And by that painfull gainfull trade,
He hath himselfe full wealthy made;
Great store of guilt he hath, ’tis said,
And treasure.
But no intreaty of his friends
Could get him to the house of fiends,
He came not over for such ends
From Dutch-land,
But worse divinity hee brought,
And hath us reformation taught,
And, with our money, he hath bought
Him much land.
Had the old parsons preached still,
The div’l should nev’r have had his wil;
But those that had or art or skill
Are outed;