Flamma sine Fumo or, poems without fictions. Hereunto are annexed the Causes, Symptoms, or Signes of several Diseases with their Cures, and also the diversity of Urines, with their Causes in Poetical measure. By R. W. [i.e. Rowland Watkyns] |
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 | Flamma sine Fumo |  |
The New illiterate Lay-Teachers.
Εκας, εκας εστε βεβηλοι.
Why trouble you religions sacred stream,
And tear Christs coat, which had no rent, or seam?
And you do patch it too with ragged clouts
Of false opinions, and phantastick doubts.
The skilful husbandman must till, and sow,
That grounds ill drest, where blind men hold the plough
Now in the Temple every saucy Jack
Opens his shop, and shews his pedlars pack.
Instead of candles we enjoy the snuff,
For precious balme we have but kitchin stuffe.
The ruder sort are by these teachers led,
Who acrons eat, and might have better bread;
If this a propagation shall be found,
These build the house, which pull it to the ground;
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By putting candles out, to gain more light.
Mad men by vertue of this propagation,
Have Bedlum left, and preach't for Reformation.
And they might well turn preachers, for we had
Many that were more foolish, and more mad.
The Tinkar being one of excellent mettle,
Begins to sound his doctrine with his Kettle.
And the laborious ploughman I bewail,
Who now doth thresh the Pulpit with his slail.
The louzy Taylor with his holy thimble
Doth patch a sermon up most quick and nimble.
He doth his skill, and wisdom much expresse,
When with his goose he doth the Scripture presse.
The Chandler now a man of light we find,
His candle leaves a stinking snuffe behind.
The Apothecary, who can give a glister
Unto a holy brother or a sister;
Hath one dram of the spirit, and can pray,
Or preach, and make no scruple of his way.
Thus false coyn doth for currant money passe,
And precious stones are valued lesse than glasse.
Not disputation, but a rigid law
Must keep these frantick sectarists in aw.
The itch of disputation will break out
Into a scab of errour; which without
Some speedy help will soon infect and run
Through all the flock, where it hath once begun,
I will take heed in these bad times, and care
To shut my shop, but keep my constant ware.
Lord let thy tender vine no longer bleed,
Call home thy shepheards which thy lambs may feed:
| Flamma sine Fumo | |