Quite frees him from th' infernal fire,
And places him in th' angel's quire:
Thus these Jack-puddings fool us!

All he gets by's pains i' th' close,
Is, that he dy'd worth so much;
Which he on's doubtful seed bestows,
That neither care nor know much:
Then fortune's favourite, his heir,
Bred base and ignorant and bare,
Is blown up like a bubble:
Who wondering at's own sudden rise,
By pride, simplicity, and vice,
Falls to his sports, drink, drabs, and dice,
And make all fly like stubble.

And the Church, the other twin,
Whose mad zeal enraged us,
Is not purified a pin
By all those broils in which th' engaged us:
We our wives turn'd out of doors,
And took in concubines and whores,
To make an alteration;
Our pulpitors are proud and bold,
They their own wills and factions hold,
And sell salvation still for gold,
And here's our REFORMATION!

'Tis a madness then to make
Thriving our employment,