Prison-pietie, or, Meditations divine and moral digested into poetical heads, on mixt and various subjects : whereunto is added a panegyrick to the right reverend, and most nobly descended, Henry Lord Bishop of London / by Samuel Speed ...

¶ On the Hypocrite.

THe Hypocrite of Actors is the worst, His own pretences making him accurst. By so much as he acts the better part, And Janus-like with double face and heart, He can compose his forehead to be grave, Although his heart be then his humours slave. His modest face doth shew the Characters Of Justice and Religion; nor forbears His tongue and gestures so much to proclaim; But heart and hands, they do recant the same. When to the Church he comes, he there salutes One of the Pillars, and on knee confutes The Atheist, worshiping that God, in part, Whose Precepts never could affect his heart. He rises, looks about, and takes his seat; Complains that Charity is not so great As he could wish, or heretofore hath been. Perhaps bestows an Alms; but to be seen, Always sits where he may embrace the look Of all Spectators: And his Table-book,

In Sermon-time comes from beneath his coat, As seeming fearful he should loose that Note. Then takes his Bible, hums to rear his voice, And turns to some Quotation with a noise: Then doubles down the leaf, as if the same Were found; and loudly asks the Preacher's name: And that his Zeal may fervently appear, Repeats it, that the standers by may hear. He can command his Tears, reckon up sins With detestation; but when he begins He never thinks, with a true pious wrath, How many darling-sins his bosom hath: Nor Alms, nor Prayers ne're fall, unless he spy, Although at distance, certain witness by; As if he doubted whether God would own Receiving them: and is so wary grown, That left the World should not discern his worth, His mouth's the Trumpet that doth sound it forth. And when his Bags run o're, bethinks to build An Hospital; and that is straightway fill'd With persons indigent, did aged grow, Poor as when born; for he had made them so. With flesh on Frydays he will not be fed, He more abhors it than his Neighbours bed. Will at the Name of Jesus bow, or nod, At Church; anon at Tavern swear by God When his Step-mother's sick, and seems to creep Towards her Grave, he then brings Tears to weep: When he hath cause to fear she will not die, He forces a rejoycing-sympathie With her best friends. 'Tis hard to rightly paint An Hypocrite. To strangers he's a Saint; A meer pretender to the Poors relief; Private Extortioner; his Neighbours grief; The blot of goodness; scoff in good mens fight; A rotten Stick to trust in dark of night; A Candle temper'd ill, with a large snuff; The Poor man's Plague, and a religious Huff; The Fool's great Idol, and the Wife man's scorn; A choaking Poppy in a field of Corn:

Abroad an Angel, free from least of evil; At home none more implacable, a Devil: And when an Angel worse, a guide amiss; But when a Devil, shews but what he is. As the Apostle's Phrase is, many men Are servants of the eyes; for they shall, when They are beheld, act Vertue with a grace, And in their Zeal run with a thorow pace: When they perceive Spectators all are gone, They change their habits, for the Play is done. They curious Searchers are in others acts, Careless Correctors of their own foul facts. They to their Lust and Lewdness are so prone, They think they're safe, because espi'd by none. Thus an ill nature leadeth man to sin, And corrupt custom bids him 'bide therein. When carnal Constitutions get a head, They, like Commanders, do weak mortals lead: But for the Hypocrite, he seems a friend Will promise much, but, not without an end, Nothing perform; but many he hath broke, Receiving substance, but returning smoke. And he whose quality is eminent, More foul's the quality of his intent. Acts that dishonourable are, look great In them, by blood or parts, have Honours seat. The Publican and Sinner have more right To Heaven's Mansions than an Hypocrite. I with Prolixity might spoil my Pen, For he's in verity the scum of men. The worst of damned Souls their portion have With him in hot and horrid scorching Cave. There leave we him and his tormented bone Measuring minutes with deep sighs and groar