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