The walls are hung with chapiters all of gold,
In Letters great all actions there are told.
The Temple doore is of prospective Glasse,
Through which a small beame of our eye can passe.
That makes truth there so difficult to know,
As for the bright Moone, a new world to show.
The Steeple, or Pillars, of Goose-quils built,
And plastered over with white paper guilt:
The painting thereof with Inke black as jet,
In severall workes and figures like a Net.
This Steeple high is, and not very light,
As a faire Evening is 'twixt day, and night.
Five Tongues, the five Bells through the world do ring,
And to each severall eare much newes doe bring.
The Philosophers Tongue doth give a deep sound,
But the Historians is no better found:
The Oratours Tongue doth make a great noyse,
Grammarians sound harsh, as if it had flawes:
The small Bell, a Poets tongue, changes oft,
Whose motion is quick, smooth, even, and soft.
The ropes they hung by, we could not well see,
For they were long small threads of Vain-glory.
But yet when they did ring, made a sweet chime,
Especially when the Poet he did rhime.
The Belfrey man, a Printer by his skill,
That, if he pleases, may ring when he will.
When Priest to Mattens, or to Vespers goe,
To the High Altar they bow downe low.
This Altar, whereon they offer unto Fame,
Is made of braines, armes, and hearts without blame:
On which lyes Wisdome, Wit, Strength, Courage, Love,
Offer'd as sacrifices to Fame above:
Vertues, Arts, Sciences, as Priest here stands,
But Fortune Prioresse all these commands.
Incense of noble deeds to Fame she sends,
Nothing is offer'd, but what she recommends.
For Fortune brings more into Fames high Court,
Then all their vertues with their great 〈◊〉〈◊〉.