Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't.

The reverend Canvase.

SO lowd a lye on Sunday rung, So thicke a troupe, so grave a thrung, Assembled in a Church, to laugh, At nothing? pardon heavens; when halfe Had Gods marke on them? none so good To satisfie the hungry croud; With holsome doctrine; none so hardy With an howers talke to quitt the tardy? All silent brethren, and yet none Can speake by inspiration? Dares none so conscious of his merit, Or presuming on the sperit, With an edifying greeting Gratulate this zealous meeting? Is this a day or place (O sin!) For such to have a canvse in? Lord! how we sat like Queene Candace's Eunuch, reading each other faces! Expecting when some Philips heire Would come to ascend the sacred chaire. Whilst cousning Miles the bell still knockt T' increase the number of the mockt? But in conclusion all the cittie Was bidden to a nunc dimitte, And yet found no man to supply The office of dumbe Zacharie In our dismission, till wee tiring The bell and pullpit both conspiring,

Deprived of sound, and vesture told us The tenor onely preacht that calld us;