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For Popish Garments, that were out of date: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.