UPON A BLEARE-EY'D WOMAN.
WITHER'D with yeeres, and bed-rid, Mumma lyes; Dry-rosted all, but raw yet in her eyes.
THE FAIRIE TEMPLE; OR, OBERON'S CHAPPELL. DEDICATED TO MR. JOHN MERRIFIELD,
COUNSELLOR AT LAW.
RARE temples thou hast seen, I know,
And rich for in and outward show;
Survey this Chappell, built alone
Without or lime, or wood or stone.
Then say, if one th'ast seene more fine
Then this, the fairies once, now thine.
A WAY enchac't with glasse and beads
There is, that to the chappel leads;
Whose structure, for his holy rest,
Is here the Halcion's curious nest;
Into the which who looks, shall see
His Temple of Idolatry;
Where he of god-heads has such store,
As Rome's Pantheon had not more.
His house of Rimmon this he calls,
Girt with small bones, instead of walls.
First, in a neech, more black then jet,
His idol-cricket there is set;
Then in a polisht ovall by,
There stands his idol beetle-flie ;
Next, in an arch, akin to this,
His idol-canker seated is.
Then in a round, is plac't by these
His golden god, Cantharides.
So that where ere ye look, ye see
No capitoll, no cornish free,
Or freeze, from this fine fripperie.
Now, this the fairies wo'd have known,
Theirs is a mixt religion :
And some have heard the elves it call
Part Pagan, part Papisticall.
If unto me all tongues were granted,
I co'd not speak the saints here painted.
Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis,
Who'gainst Mab's state plac't here right is.
Saint Will o' th' Wispe, of no great bignes,
But alias call'd here fatuus ignis.
Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, S. Fillie,
Neither those other saint-ships will I
Here goe about for to recite
Their number, almost infinite;
Which, one by one, here set downe are
In this most curious calendar.
First, at the entrance to the gate,
A little puppet-priest doth wait,
Who squeaks to all the commers there,
"Favour your tongues, who enter here.
"Pure hands bring hither, without staine."
A second pules, " Hence, hence, profane."
Hard by, i' th' shell of halfe a nut,
The holy-water there is put ;
A little brush of squirrils haires,
Compos'd of odde, not even paires,
Stands in the platter, or close by,
To purge the fairie family.
Neere to the altar stands the priest,
There offering up the holy-grist;
Ducking in mood and perfect tense,
With (much good do't him) reverence.
The altar is not here foure-square,
Nor in a forme triangular;
Nor made of glasse, or wood, or stone,
But of a little transverce bone;
Which boyes and bruckel'd children call
(Playing for points and pins) cockall.
Whose linnen-drapery is a thin,
Subtile, and ductile codlin's skin;
Which o're the board is smoothly spred
With little seale-work damasked.
The fringe that circumbinds it, too,
Is spangle-work of trembling dew,
Which, gently gleaming, makes a show,
Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow.
Upon this fetuous board doth stand
Something for shew-bread, and at hand
(Just in the middle of the altar)
Upon an end, the Fairie-psalter,
Grac't with the trout-flies curious wings,
Which serve for watched ribbanings.
Now, we must know, the elves are led
Right by the Rubrick, which they read:
And if report of them be true,
They have their text for what they doe;
I, and their book of canons too.
And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells,
They have their book of articles;
And if that Fairie knight not lies,
They have their book of homilies;
And other Scriptures, that designe
A short, but righteous discipline.
The bason stands the board upon
To take the free-oblation:
A little pin-dust, which they hold
More precious then we prize our gold;
Which charity they give to many
Poore of the parish, if there's any.
Upon the ends of these neat railes,
Hatcht with the silver-light of snails,
The elves, in formal manner, fix
Two pure and holy candlesticks,
In either which a tall small bent
Burns for the altar's ornament.
For sanctity, they have to these
Their curious copes and surplices
Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by
In their religious vesterie.
They have their ash-pans and their brooms,
Το purge the chappel and the rooms;
Their many mumbling masse-priests here,
And many a dapper chorister.
Their ush'ring vergers here likewise,
Their canons and their chaunteries;
Of cloyster-monks they have enow,
I, and their abbey-lubbers too.
And if their legend doe not lye,
They much affect the papacie ;
And since the last is dead, there's hope
Elve Boniface shall next be Pope.
They have their cups and chalices,
Their pardons and indulgences,
Their beads of nits, bels, books, and wax
Candles, forsooth, and other knacks ;
Their holy oyle, their fasting spittle,
Their sacred salt here, not a little.
Dry chips, old shooes, rags, grease, and bones,
Beside their fumigations,
To drive the devill from the cod-piece
Of the fryar, of work an odde-piece.
Many a trifle, too, and trinket,
And for what use, scarce man wo'd think it.
Next then, upon the chanters side
An apples-core is hung up dry'd,
With ratling kirnils, which is rung
To call to morn and even-song.
The saint, to which the most he prayes
And offers incense nights and dayes,
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