THE CHARACTER OF A Time-serving Saint: OR, The Hypocrite anatomized, and thorowly dissected.
To the Tune of the three Cheaters.
THe Heavens do frown, the earth doth groan,
To hear the poor man make his moan:
The God of love doth hear the cry
Of the poor Widowes misery;
And eke the fatherlesse complaint
Which they make of the formall Saint:
For they advance themselves in pride,
And care not what to th' poor betide,
And all that hold community,
By them as Ranters counted be.
But mark me well, and then you'l say,
No greater Ranters live then they.
To feed the hungry, and naked cloath,
It is a work they much do loath.
They deck themselves in brave attire,
Whilst poor go wetshod in the mire.
With laces brave themselves they paint,
An ornament fit for a Saint.
Fine Holland under Cipresse black
About their neck and down their back:
Whether it be for warmth or pride,
I know it's easie to decide.
But all this while the poor do want
That which is wasted by the Saint.
You gentle Taylors, that would see
The newest fashions which there be;
Do but the meeting place frequent,
And then you shall have full content.
For of new fashions there's no want,
They are so lookt for by the Saint.
You Shoe-makers, which are compleat,
And fain would fit a foot most neat,
Unto the Saints assembly go,
For a high heel, and a long toe,
Although the poor mans foot go bare,
New fashion'd shoes the Saints will weare.
Next unto you I shall repeat
Their superfluity at meat,
How they must have rost, bake'd and sod,
As if their belly were their God.
Preserves and sweet-meats they'l not want;
O blessed thing to be a Saint!
Their Jack must run, their Pot must boyl,
Their Cook-maid she must sweat and broyl;
On their Lords-Day she's made a slave,
That they their dainty cheer may have,
Whilst fatherlesse and hunger faint,
Such care is had to feed a Saint.
Whilest they are in the Church, and pray,
The poor man in the porch doth lay;
Having no house to hide his head,
Nothing but straw to make his bed;
And he in vain doth make complaint;
For there's no pitie in the Saint.
Now all that know what Ranting means,
Must needs confesse it is those sins,
When one riotously hath spent
That which his fellow-creatures want;
But this the Saints are freqeunt in,
And guilty of that Ranting sin.
Now if you think me much too blame,
I shall not spare to write my name;
I will not bring my self in thrall;
Men do me
Lionel Lockier call;
Others by the name of
Rant,
Such holy words flow from the Saint.
FINIS.