HICKLEDY-PICKLEDY:
OR,
The Yorkshire Curates Complaint.
To the Tune of Alas, poor Scholar, etc.
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HUsh, Poetasters, that abuse
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Apollo, and blaspheme the Muse;
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That (like the Senator of worth)
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Conceive, and yet bring nothing forth:
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Or, like that Lyon-seeming Ass,
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Who (in the name of Hudibras)
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Fool of his penny hath beguil'd,
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And plaid at Hot-cockles with Wild:
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Or like those Pamphleteers, who (last Week)
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Canted in tone of Prynne and Bastwick;
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Filling the Change with false Tradition
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Of Chelmsfords Vicar's Circumcision,
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Who lost his Tithes, (as Story tells)
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For he was Guelt of nothing else.
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Nor need we Gouty Doctor's Tongue,
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Who got a Pars'nage for a Song;
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Chirping in phrase of Robert Wisdome,
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But since the first of August is dumb:
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Whose Antler fair as Chimny-stock,
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Whose Cheeks as smoothe as Punching-block;
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Whose Shanks like Dog-horse Farsie-legs,
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Whose Teeth like Crispins Holly-pegs,
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And Leather-ears, were all Retainers
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To the Right Worshipful Cordwainers:
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And besides this, his Noping Pate
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That speaks him famous Huson's Mate,
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(This in the Church, that in the State,
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Did Text as well as Shooes translate)
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We scorn. Now fie of his unsav'ry Drolls,
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With which he Flie-blow'd Bumpkins Souls.
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But if the vertue of Small-Beer,
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Christ'nings, and Twenty Marks a year,
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Can brain with Fancy rich inspire,
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And teach an Ass to tune a Lyre,
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Who felt for Poetry, but mist her,
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Laying his Clutches on her Sister
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Hight Poverty: and since that time,
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Borrow'd in Prose, and paid in Rime:
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Then listen, Lordlings, unto one
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At Gossipings yclep'd Sir John;
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Who is no better nor no worse
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Then Lazy Doctor's Stalking-horse;
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The Lazy Priest, who (like to Criple)
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Supports each Arm with Crutch of Steeple;
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And (when his crazy bulk grows sick)
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Stumbles into a Bishoprick.
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Religious man! who more condoles
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The want of Tithes, then loss of Souls;
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And when both Men and Corn are mown,
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Seeks not Gods Harvest, but his own:
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Who plays with Simoniack Doxy,
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And in the Pulpit speaks by Proxy;
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Whilst Curate Poor, that bears the heat
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Of Morning, and the Evening sweat;
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And doth his Congregation foster
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With Postles Creed, and Pater Noster;
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Dispensing (in these times of dotage)
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That which blind Sectaries call Pottage;
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Is Slave to Avaritious Master,
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For Rector rides on back of Pastor.
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Had I been Presbyter, perhaps
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I might have wash'd my Zealous Chaps
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With blood of Grape, and left the County
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To taste th' unconstant City's Bounty;
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And (as to Calamy it happens)
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Been strange Decoy-bird to dead Capons.
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Thus might I graze (like Royal Beast)
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And never taste the Wisemans Feast:
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But tedious is the Curate's way,
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For he must Fast as well as Pray:
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But if the Parliament will smother
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One Priest with Cures, and starve another,
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The Tott'ring Clergy must submit
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To Presbyter or Jesuit:
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For Liturgy will loose her Glory
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'Twixt Mass-book and the Directory.
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