Canto 4.
LE LUTRIN.
31
The Prelates foes; The Chanters friends;
The Canto, and the Poëme ends.
The Canto, and the Poëme ends.
The Pulpit now lifting its lofty Head
With carved Canopy stands Covered;
When the Church-clocks with their melodious chime,
Summon'd the Singing-boyes to rise: 'Tis time
To Rise to Matins! Thus the Bells did Chink!
Thus did at least the dreaming Sluggard think.
Drown'd in sweet Sleep th' Arch-chanter roll'd at ease,
(A Soveraign Medicine 'gainst the twinging Fleas,)
Whose roving Fancy traverst many a Theme,
Startled at last with terror of a Dream;
He cry'd out, waken'd at his own fierce crying,
And parboil'd in his mellow Sweat lay frying.
His Pages starting at the sudden Noyse,
Began to bussle, rubbing their gum-glew'd Eyes;
One frighted runs, but poor fool, knew not whither,
And from the dore leaps back, e're well got thither:
Girot, (a trustier Slave ne're waited on him,)
Runs to his Master, ne're a Rag upon him;
What the Rope ails you? (cry'd the testy Lacquey,)
Does th' Night-mare ride you, or the Old Witch make you
Roar at this rate? What a mad coil you keep here,
That people cannot steal a Nap, or sleep here?
Compose your self for shame! The wiser Sun
His race Nocturnal has but half-way run;
Is this a time for Prayers? Let Singing-boyes
Whose Pension's pay for't, do those Drudgeries!
Ah friend! (reply'd the quaking Chanter) friend!
Insult not o're my juster Passion; lend
Thy patient Ear to my sad Fate, and joyn
Thy secret sorrowes to these tears of mine!
With carved Canopy stands Covered;
When the Church-clocks with their melodious chime,
Summon'd the Singing-boyes to rise: 'Tis time
To Rise to Matins! Thus the Bells did Chink!
Thus did at least the dreaming Sluggard think.
Drown'd in sweet Sleep th' Arch-chanter roll'd at ease,
(A Soveraign Medicine 'gainst the twinging Fleas,)
Whose roving Fancy traverst many a Theme,
Startled at last with terror of a Dream;
He cry'd out, waken'd at his own fierce crying,
And parboil'd in his mellow Sweat lay frying.
His Pages starting at the sudden Noyse,
Began to bussle, rubbing their gum-glew'd Eyes;
One frighted runs, but poor fool, knew not whither,
And from the dore leaps back, e're well got thither:
Girot, (a trustier Slave ne're waited on him,)
Runs to his Master, ne're a Rag upon him;
What the Rope ails you? (cry'd the testy Lacquey,)
Does th' Night-mare ride you, or the Old Witch make you
Roar at this rate? What a mad coil you keep here,
That people cannot steal a Nap, or sleep here?
Compose your self for shame! The wiser Sun
His race Nocturnal has but half-way run;
Is this a time for Prayers? Let Singing-boyes
Whose Pension's pay for't, do those Drudgeries!
Ah friend! (reply'd the quaking Chanter) friend!
Insult not o're my juster Passion; lend
Thy patient Ear to my sad Fate, and joyn
Thy secret sorrowes to these tears of mine!
Attend
