LAMBETH FAIRE, VVherein you have all the Bishops Trinkets set to Sale.
Heu quanta de spe decidi.
O tempora! O Mores!
I sit thus groveling in S. Peters Chaire,
'Ore-prest with griefe to thinke on Lambeth Faire.
Death close mine eyes with thy eternall doome,
Before this Faire be thus proclaim'd at Rome:
O mihi praeteritos referet si Iupiter annos
Qualis eram—
Printed Anno Dom. 1641.
To the Reader.
THe rare Poeticke wits of these our Times,
Are daily chanting curious Hymnes and Rymes.
VVhose lines pe fum'd, smell sweet as any Rope,
For English Bishops, or the Romish Pope.
But mine smell not so strong, for I am sory,
Our Bishops should change Caps with Doctor Story.
Then Reader now, if thou wouldst understand,
Why this same matter thus I take in hand:
Because I love my braine to exercise,
Though Zoylous, hap, may thinke tis otherwise,
Because I love to keepe my minde from folly,
Or humour which is called Melancholy.
But some will say, perhaps, if this be true,
You might have kept it from the vulgar vew:
I answer no, for who could then repaire,
To buy new fashion Robes at Lambeth Faire.
The Parliament hath pul'd them downe, and I
Have set their trinkets out for men to buy,
Lawne-sleeves, Hoods, Surplisses, with rest o'th rabble,
Thus ends the Prologue, Here begins the Fable.
LAMBETH FAIRE, • Wherein is sold, , • Ceremonies all , and • Both new and old.
NO sooner was the sable darknesse past,
And Sol his Eye on our Horizon cast
By whose bright becames those clouds dispersed were,
Which did benight the Land with horrid feare;
But presently the people heard strange Fables,
The Bishops went to Lambeth with their Bables,
Where a new Faire was lately consecrate
For Popish Garments, that were out of date:
And when their shops and stalls, and boothes were made
With all things sitting for that holy Trade:
O'th tops o'th standings all, for fear of evill,
Were Crosses set, to scare away the Divell:
With might and maine, the people 'gan to flöcke,
And all were present there, by nine a clock,
The Clearke o'th' Faire was presently bespoken,
To give them liberty, their stalls to open,
To keepe out theeves the Keepers p'ace he deemes;
But Keeper he was run away it seemes:
[...] [...]Well let him goe, the Bishops cri'd, what then?
We have a nimble, and quicksighted Wren,
Who when he comes, can soare and fly about,
To spy, and keep the knavish Rable out.
The Master of the Fayr was cal'd upon,
But answer's made, he to the Tower is gon;
That he was absent, it was taken ill,
But sure he went toth' Tower against his will:
Proclaym the Fayr, the Bishops all, they cryed,
For we dare hardly, longer here abide;
The Cleark gave leave, the Cryer on a hill
Standing, began to cry with voyce so shrill.
O-yes, O-yes, I do cry,
The Bishops Trinkets who will buy?
This being done of Bishops, all the Crew,
Began with speed, their wearing Robes to shew,
And with extended voyce, they all did cry,
Come Customers, see what you lack and buy;
Here's Vestments Consecrate, all sorts and sizes,
You may have here, if you'll come to the prises:
Buy Fayrings for your Children, here are toyes,
Fit for your purpose, be they Gerls, or Boyes;
Caps for your Boyes to hurle into the aïre,
And Beads for Gerles, are here in Lambeth Fayr:
What though these Robes were first devis'd in Hell,
Tush thats no matter, we'll good-pen worths sell:
Here look upon them, they are very good and strong,
They'r neate and handsom, and will last you long,
They'r very full and large. you nere saw stronger;
I would not sell them durst I keepe them longer.
Buy a Crucifix, another loud doth call,
'Twill scare the Devill, and will preserve your soule;
Lay out your money, hang up worldly pelfe,
I will sel't cheaper, then I had't my selfe:
It's strange to see how men their money keepe,
What come you all to Lambeth Fayr to sleepe,
Come buy lawn sleeves. I haue no money took,
Here, try them on, you'l like a Bishop looke.
And may get honour, both of great and small,
And Lord it ore your fellow Brethren all:
If that the times should chance once more to turne,
Then might you Lord it, like as we have done,
Come hither friend, and buy this silken Gowne,
I'm sure you cannot match't in Lambeth Towne:
In this same Gown, did Canterburies Grace,
At High-Commission shew his gracelesse face;
Many a storme, and shower it will abide,
Yea, and a world of knavery 't will hide;
Sir, looke upon't, and view it at your leisure,
Goe to the price, for you I faine would pleasure,
Come buy his Graces Gown, the price is small,
And if you will I'le sell you grace and all.
Though he have worn't, it's neere the worse for wearing,
Girt it but close, and never feare the tearing.
Come buy my Crosier staffe, another he begins,
Tis excellent to keepe Dogs from your shins:
Pray Sir let me some of your money take,
And keepe this staffe for its old masters sake.
Another comes, as if his back would breake,
Burthen'd with Ʋestures, and gan thus to speake,
Trinkets I have good store, within my packe,
I pray you view them, and see what you lack;
See for your love, and for your Money buy,
Name what you want, I'le fit you presently,
My packe it is a Wardrobe, large and faire,
Wherein are Miters, Caps rotund, and square,
The Rar [...]st Episcopalls, that ere you see,
Are in my packe, come pray you buy of me;
Hear's rich Embroydred weare, chuse where you please,
I have a thousand such like knackes as these:
Buy this brave Rochet, buy this curious Cope,
The Tippet, Scarfe, they all came from the Pope;
I'le sell them at rate you cannot loose,
Or else exchange them for a pair of shoose;
I must to Rome, I can no longer stay,
I pray you buy them, I must hence away.
Then after that unto this Jolly Faire,
A little Wren, came flying through the ayre,
And on his back betwixt his wings he bore,
A Minster stuft with Crosses, Altars store,
With Sacred Fonts, and rare guilt Cherubims,
And bellowing Organs, chanting curious Hymmes,
The Hallow'd Host, dum Priests, and singing boyes,
With Antick Cringers, and a thousand toyes:
Thus then this mighty WREN, unto the Faire,
Brought his Cathedrall pack, thus stuft with Ware,
The door's wide-op't, there thousands came to see,
The Romish Reliques of the Hierarchie;
Where all were set to sale, and at low rate,
Because they gan to wax quite out of date,
Buy my high Altars, he lifts up his voyce,
All sorts of Masse bookes, here you may have choyce,
Her's Bells baptiz'd will make a dainty sound,
Pray if you please step in and ring them round:
Then after that were seene a Regiment,
Of Hell-borne Locusts from Cocitus sent,
To draw a mighty Cart wherein were brought,
Plurality of Churches to be bought.
Then cri'd an other, Sir, what will you buy?
I pray step in Sir, do not so passe by.
Here's a Cathedra, once Saint Peters Chaire,
The rarest thing to buy in Lambeth Faire.
The candid Surplesse, and the Wedding Ringes:
Pictures for Bibles, and such pretty things:
Here's the late Canons, and the New found Oath:
To sell Et caetera I am very loath:
You formerly haue heard by true Relation:
These are the toyes wee made i'th' Convocation:
Oath ex Officio, here if you will buy:
Or High Commission, take it presently.
Here's Ember Weekes with thin-chapt Jack-a-Lent,
To help you at a pinch when all is spent:
Here's Holy Dayes to sport the time away:
Or Booke of Pastimes for the Sabbath Day:
Here's Deanes and Prebends, and the filthy Nest
Of Pursevants, Promoters and the rest,
Chancelours, Officialls, Surrogates, and all
The lofty Courtiers of Commission Hall:
Come Clergy Chapmen, to your Hierarchie,
Heers exc'lent Ware, as good as ere you see;
Jure Divino, that's become our Doome,
Wee'l sel't for Wharfage to the Coast of Room.
Burialls, and Churchings, we have wondrous store,
Upon my word, they all came from the Whore;
Then next to him, a fiery fat guts fell,
Brought six and twenty Bishopricks to sell;
With gages and whips, and Prisons for all those,
That should their cursed Hierarchie oppose,
With catch him Pursevant, take him to the Iaile,
There let him lye without Mainprise or Baile,
'Ere he get from us, wee will make him see
Experimentally, wee Bishops bee:
Our Courts and Iurisdiction's are at sale:
Come buy them quickly, 'ere they be too stale.
An other Bishop, with a Box did ride,
And with extended voyce he loudly cri'd,
To Schollars all that Ministers would bee,
Come hither, buy the Holy Ghost of me;
But Simon Magus he was in the ground,
And none to buy the Holy Ghost was found.
An other Bishop he a Pack brought in,
The which was stuff'd with Licences toth' brim,
And presently he crieth out with fury,
Here's Licences to Preach, to Church and Bury:
If wedding's out and you'r dispos'd to wed,
Come buy a Licence, and away to Bed.
What all passe by? 'tis strange Time turns her wheell,
And bends her brow upon us, that wee feell
No handsaile yet, our ware's becharmed sure,
And (like our selves) there's none will it indure,
It's doom'd to dismall fate, despis'd and scorn'd,
Though nev'r so costly, or so much adorn'd:
Here's omne venale, yet no money flyes,
Our ware's dog-cheape, and thus credit dyes:
For such a Fayre I never did behold,
We bring our ware but nothing can be sold:
I wonder said one, what was our intent,
To make our Fayre thus at the Parliament.
For we are mocked here by sawcy Jacks,
They bid the Pedlers, to put up their Packes.
Another Bishop lifting up his voyce,
Cri'd out amain, of Livings I have choice,
I'le sell you two or three, if that you please,
So you'l have money comming in with ease,
If that to Preach, your selfe you can't indure,
Get some poore Iourney-man to serve your Cure;
You'l quickly light on such a one I trow,
We have made more, then how to live doe know.
Wax Candles, Tapors, another cries and calls,
These brought I with me from Cathedrall Paules,
They'l scare the Divell, and put him unto flight,
When he perceives a consecrated light;
When we at Mattens, and at Even-song were,
We had them by us then, devoyd of feare;
They'l bring delight unto your eyes and nose,
They burn so cleere and smell so like a Rose,
And when you thinke that it hath burnt enough,
Then blow it out, you shall not smell the snuffe,
Or else you may on whom you will bestow it,
They'l joy to thinke a Bishop once did owe it.
Come hither Friend another loud doth call
I'le sell you here my Common-Prayer-Bookes all,
Sir view this same, and take it in your hand,
This Booke but lately no man durst withstand,
For if he did, and we thereof did heare,
Wee sure did make him a Commissioner,
And if he chanc'd apearance for to misse,
To Limbo Patrum, he was sent for this;
And if he did not us some money give,
In that Abysse we doom'd him still to live.
Money my hearts another loud doth call,
I see I am not now in Lambeth Hall,
No sooner I from Dinner then was risen,
Men brought me chinke to free them out of Prison,
I'm broke, I'm broke; another then did say,
Come buy my Hoods I can no longer stay,
What mean ye Sirs? the day is almost spent,
Come buy my Trinckets all incontinent;
Come hither friend, the price is very small,
[...]e sell my Coate, it is Canonicall,
Come buy this Miter Sir, if you be able,
The vertue of it is inestimable,
Buy't Sir, and wear it, and then soon I hope,
You will rise higher and become a Pope,
I tell you truely had not fortune left mee,
I would have kept it untill Death bereft me.
It now beginning to grow towards night,
Comes a grave Doctor running in with might,
His courage stoute was something now abated,
He brings his golden Slippers, consecrated,
And crys, come buy these Slippers here of mine,
They are emboss'd with Holines Divine,
They will in all your wayes preserve you sound,
And with them you may tread on holy Ground,
If you'l but weare them, this I'le tell you more,
You'l leave the Earth, and to the Heavens may soare
They'r fild with Holines within, and round about,
Here looke upon them, see how't breaketh out.
If not my Slippers, then my great Bumbo,
Ile sel't you now; what answer? No no no,
We thought our ware would sell at such a price,
And of our hands beene vented in a trice:
That this last Act upon the English Stage,
Would forded money, for our pilgrimmage
To Babylon the Great; how'ere we dream'd no lesse,
Then Ransom for his prisoned Holynesse;
But he, nor we, must by this Lambeth Faire,
Get help I see, by this our Popish ware.
Whilst thus the Bishops there, their guts and they,
Cal'd to their Customers to come away,
A Messenger came running through the croud,
And to the Bishops thus he spake aloud,
Away to Rome or Tiburne chuse you whether,
I know your shooes are made of running leather:
For all the Lawes oth' Land, you have out run,
And I come here to tell you what is done,
The Parliament hath pul'd your pride toth' ground,
And by the House three times y'are voted down,
Your war's not worth a —, for all your cogging,
See where the Hangman comes, away, be jogging,
Alas cryed they, is all our labour losse?
Others get money, we have but the Crosse!
For we are crossed in our expedition,
And fly we must, for all Oxfords Petition,
Yet notwithstanding herein lies our hope,
We shall be entertained by the Pope.
With that like men of Sences quite bereft,
They ran away and all their trinckets left,
A friend of mine to me did then repaire,
Desireing me, to pen this famous Fayr,
Which I have done, and have it here to sell;
Come buy the Faire of me, and so farewell.
FINIS.