First, in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set: Then in a polished oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly: Next in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is: Then in a round is placed by these His golden G.o.d, Cantharides.

So that, where'er ye look, ye see, No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery.

Now this the fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixed religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part pagan, part papistical.

If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted.

Saint t.i.t, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's-state placed here right is; Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness, But _alias_ called here _Fatuus ignis_; Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Fillie Neither those other saintships will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite, Which one by one here set down are In this most curious calendar.

First, at the entrance of the gate A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there: "_Favour your tongues who enter here; Pure hands bring hither without stain._"

A second pules: "_Hence, hence, profane!_"

Hard by, i' th' sh.e.l.l of half a nut, The holy-water there is put: A little brush of squirrel's hairs (Composed of odd, not even pairs,) Stands in the platter, or close by, To purge the fairy family.

Near to the altar stands the priest, There off'ring up the Holy Grist, Ducking in mood and perfect tense, With (much-good-do-'t him) reverence.

The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular, Nor made of gla.s.s, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone; Which boys and bruckel'd children call (Playing for points and pins) c.o.c.kal.

Whose linen drapery is a thin Subtile and ductile codlin's skin: Which o'er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damasked.

The fringe that circ.u.mbinds it too Is spangle-work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow.

Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for show-bread, and at hand, Just in the middle of the altar, Upon an end, the fairy-psalter, Grac'd with the trout-flies' curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings.

Now, we must know, the elves are led Right by the rubric which they read.

And, if report of them be true, They have their text for what they do; Aye, and their book of canons too.

And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells, They have their book of articles; And, if that fairy-knight not lies, They have their book of homilies; And other scriptures that design A short but righteous discipline.

The basin stands the board upon To take the free oblation: A little pin-dust, which they hold More precious than we prize our gold Which charity they give to many Poor of the parish, if there's any.

Upon the ends of these neat rails, Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails, The elves in formal manner fix Two pure and holy candlesticks: In either which a small tall bent Burns for the altar's ornament.

For sanct.i.ty they have to these Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb hanging by In their religious vestery.

They have their ash-pans and their brooms To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling Ma.s.s-priests here, And many a dapper chorister, Their ush'ring vergers, here likewise Their canons and their chanteries.

Of cloister-monks they have enow, Aye, and their abbey-lubbers too; And, if their legend do not lie, They much affect the papacy.

And since the last is dead, there's hope _Elf Boniface shall next be pope_.

They have their cups and chalices; Their pardons and indulgences; Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax Candles, forsooth, and other knacks; Their holy oil, their fasting spittle; Their sacred salt here, not a little; Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease and bones; Beside their fumigations To drive the devil from the cod-piece Of the friar (of work an odd piece).

Many a trifle, too, and trinket, And for what use, scarce man would think it.

Next, then, upon the chanters' side An apple's core is hung up dri'd, With rattling kernels, which is rung To call to morn and even-song.

The saint to which the most he prays And offers incense nights and days, The lady of the lobster is, Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss; And humbly chives of saffron brings For his most cheerful offerings.

When, after these, h'as paid his vows He lowly to the altar bows; And then he dons the silk-worm's shed, Like a Turk's turban on his head, And reverently departeth thence, Hid in a cloud of frankincense, And by the glow-worm's light well guided, Goes to the feast that's now provided.

_Halcyon_, king-fisher.

_Saint t.i.t_, etc., see Note.

_Mab's-state_, Mab's chair of state.

_Bruckel'd_, begrimed.

_c.o.c.kal_, a game played with four huckle-bones.

_Codlin_, an apple.

_Fetuous_, feat, neat.

_Watchet_, pale blue.

_Hatch'd_, inlaid.

_Bent_, bent gra.s.s.

_Nits_, nuts.

_The lady of the lobster_, part of the lobster's apparatus for digestion.

_Foot-pace_, a mat.

_Chives_, shreds.

224. TO MISTRESS KATHERINE BRADSHAW, THE LOVELY, THAT CROWNED HIM WITH LAUREL.

My muse in meads has spent her many hours, Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers To make for others garlands, and to set On many a head here many a coronet; But, amongst all encircled here, not one Gave her a day of coronation, Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove A laurel for her, ever young as love-- You first of all crown'd her: she must of due Render for that a crown of life to you.

225. THE PLAUDITE, OR END OF LIFE.

If, after rude and boisterous seas, My wearied pinnace here finds ease; If so it be I've gained the sh.o.r.e With safety of a faithful oar; If, having run my barque on ground, Ye see the aged vessel crown'd: What's to be done, but on the sands Ye dance and sing and now clap hands?

The first act's doubtful, but we say It is the last commends the play.

226. TO THE MOST VIRTUOUS MISTRESS POT, WHO MANY TIMES ENTERTAINED HIM.

When I through all my many poems look, And see yourself to beautify my book, Methinks that only l.u.s.tre doth appear A light fulfilling all the region here.

Gild still with flames this firmament, and be A lamp eternal to my poetry.

Which, if it now or shall hereafter shine, 'Twas by your splendour, lady, not by mine.

The oil was yours; and that I owe for yet: _He pays the half who does confess the debt_.

227. TO MUSIC, TO BECALM HIS FEVER.

Charm me asleep and melt me so With thy delicious numbers, That, being ravished, hence I go Away in easy slumbers.

Ease my sick head And make my bed, Thou power that canst sever From me this ill; And quickly still, Though thou not kill, My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire Into a gentle-licking flame, And make it thus expire.

Then make me weep My pains asleep; And give me such reposes That I, poor I, May think thereby I live and die 'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like a silent dew, Or like those maiden showers Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers.

Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; That, having ease me given, With full delight I leave this light, And take my flight For heaven.

228. UPON A GENTLEWOMAN WITH A SWEET VOICE.

So long you did not sing or touch your lute, We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sat mute.

But when your playing and your voice came in, 'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin.

229. UPON CUPID.

As lately I a garland bound, 'Mongst roses I there Cupid found; I took him, put him in my cup, And drunk with wine, I drank him up.

Hence then it is that my poor breast Could never since find any rest.

230. UPON JULIA'S b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Display thy b.r.e.a.s.t.s, my Julia--there let me Behold that circ.u.mmortal purity, Between whose glories there my lips I'll lay, Ravish'd in that fair _via lactea_.

_Circ.u.mmortal_, more than mortal.

231. BEST TO BE MERRY.

Fools are they who never know How the times away do go; But for us, who wisely see Where the bounds of black death be, Let's live merrily, and thus Gratify the Genius.

232. THE CHANGES TO CORINNA.