Bloody News from CHELMSFORD:
OR, A Proper New
BALLAD,
CONTAINING
A true and perfect Relation of a most barbarous Murder com-
mitted upon the Body of a Country Curate, who died a great Wound given him in the bottom of his Belly, by
a most Cruel Country-fellow, for being too familiar with his Wife.
To the Tune of Chevy Chase.
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GIve o'er, ye rhiming Cavaliers,
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That jeer'd at every turn;
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And sung how Jane towards Elders Cur
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In flames of love did burn.
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You too that writ how Peters Hugh,
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Was Butchers Cuckold-maker;
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Or penn'd the Courtship past between
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She-Filly, and the Quaker.
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But come Droll-rampant Hudibras,
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Laureat of Garden-Paris,
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Bring me the great Bruino's spoils,
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(That Champion that so rare is.)
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For I would do as Nero fell
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With Primitive Christians did;
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I'd make't a Cassock for my Priest,
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And bait him in a Bear's hide.
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In Essex (which like Affrick still
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Some Monster is a yeilding,
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Where once was bred a Roundheaded Colt,
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And now a Cavalier Gelding.)
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Neer Chelmsford Town a certain grave
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Conforming Parson dwelt,
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Chast from the Navil to the Teeth;
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Yet this good man was Gelt.
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Dull Laymen have small reverence
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For any man of worth;
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A Churlish whorson did the feat:
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Sad Hint for Holder-forth!
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He dreaded not his Ghostly face,
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Nor Circle of his Girdle,
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But slash't him like to Traitor, new
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Cut down, and laid on Hurdle.
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Now you that would the story know,
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That nothing may escape us,
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Hark how poor Levite came to dy
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A Martyr to Priapus.
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There liv'd a crafty boorish wight
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Neer Palace Sicerdotal,
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Whose Spouse most amiable was.
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The Sum of Beauty Total.
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Lovelier then she for whom Jove turn'd
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Himself to milk-white Bull a:
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Fair Rosamond was not so bright
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Nor half so comely Trulla.
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Sweeter then smiles of Infant day,
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(As Servant cant's to Mistress)
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Ah! twas the Sorcery of that Face.
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Led Teacher into distress.
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He spy'd her first from Pulpit high
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In pause, the first Pray'r after,
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When zeal had turn'd up white of ey
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To stare on Churches rafter.
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(Quoth he to self,) why stand I here
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(Giving the Glass a jolt)
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To utter Sermon by retail
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Which might be done by Dolt?
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Is not your Woman purer Text
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To handle then an Homily?
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Sure 'twould be fruitful truth to teach
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Her, duties of a Family.
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Thus having thought, in haste he read
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To people printed lurry;
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Yet, that he could not say't by heart,
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For her sake her was sorry.
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For now at spawling intervals
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His eye did onely taste her,
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But race was run with greater speed
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Then Nun saies Pater Noster.
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The Swain her Husband all this time
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Watch't whilst the Parson Pray'd;
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He mark't his leers when finger was
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At end of Sentence laid.
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Observ'd those Arrows shot from sight
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At his fair But were level'd,
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But swore the Priest had better bin
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In mothers womb be divel'd.
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Psalm sung, As from Cornelius Tub,
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The Parson came down, recking;
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And till he found that Hobnails house
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Vow'd never to lin seeking.
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At last he came to humble Cot
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Shrine, where his Goddess was
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Doublet of Siraw, Breeches of clay,
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And fundament of Grass.
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In Age of Gold, as Poet tells,
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(Who seldome see such day)
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This was the place where Vertue slept
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Upon a lock of Hay.
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The Dame, right busy at her work,
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Sweet butter was a churning;
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When at the motion of the stick
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Priest's bowels fell a yeirning.
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Fair Nymph (said he) incontinent,
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Lay by the Typical Churn;
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(And then the Varlet turn'd aside
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To steal a lecherous giern.)
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Phy (Angel blest) why should that hand
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A wooden Instrument hold,
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Design'd to wield a better thing
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Then Scepter made with Gold?
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Excellent Creature! be as kinde
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As fair. An heart obdurate,
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"Is Satan's Anvil, where he knocks:
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Shall he knock, and not Curate?
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O Woman, put the Dev'l behinde,
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But put the Priest before:
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Full many a She for Cloke-divine,
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Hath done as much, or more.
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When I commenced Batchelor,
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All Cambridge did adore me:
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Why should a thing of feeble Sex
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Think much to fall before me?
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"This said; Nay, Pish, the good Wife cry'd:
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Nay, stand away, for shame!
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Are you a Minister, and care
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No more for a good Name?
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Good Name (quoth he)? with that She smil'd;
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And so they snugg'd together:
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But He had better slept i'th' streets,
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Then in her Bed of Feather:
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For just about that fatal hour
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When Dev'l came for Doctor-
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-Faustus; as Key of Lead had him,
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And in a dead Sleep lockt her;
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The jealous Bumpkin blunders in:
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Unseasonable Guest!
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Welcome as stones in Oats to Horse,
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Or Skull at Egypt-Feast.
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O Caitiff vile, said Country-man;
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And catcht him by the throat:
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I'll wreck my malice on thy blood,
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Thou curst Canonical-Goat.
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"Make me a Cuckold, Reading Rogue!
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Pulpit serve but Susans?
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Susans Smock your Surplice be?
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take away that Nusance.
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"Good husband, (quoth the panting wife)
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Proceed in wrath no further,
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"Lest you be turn'd out Churches pale,
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one committing murder.
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"Sir, gentle Sir, the Priest reply'd,
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As well as he could speak:
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For Pesant held his Gouty First
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Hard on his Enemies Neck.
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As Tunes, when Fingers taken off,
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From Flajolet do come;
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So issu'd words from Curates mouth,
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When Lout remov'd his Thumb.
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Sir! I confess that I have wrong'd
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and your loving Wife.
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Confess and hang, cry'd surly Boor;
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(And strait he drew his Knife.)
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The glitt'ring Blade, as keen as that
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Which Felton bought near Tow'r,
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Made Susans heart go Pit a-pat,
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And Lovers face look sow'r.
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Hold, honest Friend, Sir Roger cry'd;
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What? wilt thou take my life?
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"No: but I'll seize those arms where-with
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Thou hast subdu'd my Wife.
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Though Theologu wept, and Wife did beg,
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Churl slighted words and tears;
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And at one gash from Curate took
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Musquet and Bandaliers.
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Thus RUMP in Forest not content
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To fell down Timber tall,
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Fantaiqu Slaves stubb'd root and branch,
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Nay, Underwoods, and all.
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Sir, (said Swain) if e'er you chance
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to be Pope,
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"There will not need a sacred Chair
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Holiness to grope.
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"Go, go, live chaste, as Clergy should,
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taken by your betters)
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"But come not near to London-town,
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there live Capon-eaters.
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But lo! while Scoundrel thus did taunt
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The man of holy Function,
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Wife well perceiv'd that body spent
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Had need of extream Unction.
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Then did she wring her sweating Palms,
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And loudly did complain:
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But sighs and groans, and bellows-snout,
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To dying Bums are vain.
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The blood continually ran
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From place as bare as Common;
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Yet, even then, good Curate cast
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A dying glaunce at Woman.
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"Farewel, said he: bid Parsons all
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of Bevers fate:
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"For when they shall be serv'd like me,
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dumps will be too late.
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This said, ---the Curates mortal Cask;
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With Ribband hoopt about,
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Roll'd down the Hill, and slipp'ry Life
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For want of Tap ran out.
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The EPITAPH.
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COurteous Reader! underneath
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These Spires of fading Grass
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Lies Curate, who (if Wives may judge)
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An able Preacher was.
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We hope his Soul in Heav'n is safe,
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(Though some scarce think so can:)
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For, though he sometimes liv'd upright,
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He di'd no Perfect Man.
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