Latine Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

The House of Prayer was made a Den of Thieves,
Heavens forgive us! lets amend our Lives!
A Scourge befal that Mony-changing Crew,
Where neither God, nor Cæsar has his due!
Defiling sacred ground with Market stuff,
As if the Streets had not been broad enough,
To make a Burial-Place, a place of Trade,
It is a kind of Living by the Dead,
Me thinks the grave should open, & the sprights,
Of such as sin'd by measure & by Weights,
Should fright these Sons of Traffick from their bound
Who with unhallow'd feet profan'd their ground,
Tis well their Spirits are laid: Tichburn's a Guest,
Like an ill Conscience, ner'e would let them rest,
What could we hope for, when we could not have,
Quiet, within a solitary grave?

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But oh! how just is Heaven! his doom is red,
No place among the Living, or the Dead;
Perch with thy Brethren in Iniquity!
A just Reward for all thy Simony!
Whilst Pious Browne deserves our thanks at least,
That when we are dead, our bones shall be at Rest.