HICKLEDY-PICKLEDY:
OR, The Yorkshire Curates Complaint.

To the Tune of Alas, poor Scholar, &c.
HUsh, Poetasters, that abuse
Apollo, and blaspheme the Muse;
That (like the Senator of worth)
Conceive, and yet bring nothing forth:
Or, like that Lyon-seeming Ass,
Who (in the name of Hudibras)
Fool of his penny hath beguil'd,
And plaid at Hot-cockles with Wild:
Or like those Pamphleteers, who (last Week)
Canted in tone of Prynne and Bastwick;
Filling the Change with false Tradition
Of Chelmsford's Vicar's Circumcision,
Who lost his Tithes, (as Story tells)
For he was Guelt of nothing else.
Nor need we Gouty Doctor's Tongue,
Who got a Pars'nage for a Song;
Chirping in phrase of Robert Wisdome,
But since the first of August is dumb:
Whose Antler fair as Chimny-stock,
Whose Cheeks as smoothe as Punching-block;
Whose Shanks like Dog-horse Farsie-legs,
Whose Teeth like Crispins Holly-pegs,
And Leather-ears, were all Retainers
To the Right Worshipful Cordwainers:
And besides this, his Noping Pate
That speaks him famous Huson's Mate,
(This in the Church, that in the State,
Did Text as well as Shooes translate)
We scorn. Now fie of his unsav'ry Drolls,
With which he Flie-blow'd Bumpkins Souls.
But if the vertue of Small-Beer,
Christ'nings, and TwenŐĄty Marks a year,
Can brain with Fancy rich inspire,
And teach an Ass to tune a Lyre,
Who felt for Poetry, but mist her,
Laying his Clutches on her Sister
Hight Poverty: and since that time,
Borrow'd in Prose, and Paid in Rime:
Then listen, Lordlings, unto one
At Gossipings yclep'd Sir John;
Who is no better nor no worse
Then Lazy Doctor's Stalking-horse;
Tne Lazy Priest, who (like to Criple)
Supports each Arm with Crutch of Steeple;
And (when his crazy bulk grows sick)
Stumbles into a Bishoprick.
Religious man! who more condoles
The want of Tithes, then loss of Souls;
And when both Men and Corn are mown,
Seeks not Gods Harvest, but his own:
Who plays with Simoniack Doxy,
And in the Pulpit speaks by Proxy;
Whilst Curate Poor, that bears the heat
Of Morning, and the Evening sweat;
And doth his Congregation foster
With 'Postles Creed, and Pater Noster;
Dispensing (in these times of dotage)
That which blind Sectaries call Pottage;
Is Slave to Avaritious Master,
For Rector rides on back of Pastor.
Had I been Presbyter, perhaps
I might have wash'd my Zealous Chaps
With blood of Grape, and left the County
To taste th' unconstant City's Bounty;
And (as to Calamy it happens)
Been strange Decoy-bird to dead Capons.
Thus might I graze (like Royal Beast)
And never taste the Wisemans Feast:
But tedious is the Curate's way,
For he must Fast as well as Pray:
But if the Parliament will smother
One Priest with Cures, and starve another,
The Tott'ring Clergy must submit
To Presbyter or Jesuit:
For Liturgy will loose her Glory
'Twixt Mass-book and the Directory.
By T. P.

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