uld reap any great commodity from his pigbelly.

_Lop_.

Poor stirring for poor Vicars.
_Diego_. And poor Sextons.

_Lop_.

We pray and pray, but to no purpose,
Those that enjoy our lands, choak our Devotions.
Our poor thin stipends make us arrant dunces.

_Diego_.

If you live miserably, how shall we do (Master)
That are fed only with the sound of prayers?
We rise and ring the Bells to get good stomachs,
And must be fain to eat the ropes with reverence.

_Lop_.

When was there a Christning, _Diego_?

_Diego_.

Not this ten weeks:
Alas, they have forgot to get children (Master)
The Wars, the Seas, and usurie undoe us,
Takes off our minds, our edges, blunts our plough-shares.
They eat nothing here, but herbs, and get nothing but green sauce:
There are some poor Labourers, that perhaps
Once in seven year, with helping one another,
Produce some few pin'd-Butter-prints, that scarce hold
The christning neither.

_Lop_.

Your Gallants, they get Honour,
A strange fantastical Birth, to defraud the Vicar,
And the Camp Christens their Issues, or the Curtizans,
'Tis a lewd time.

_Die_.

They are so hard-hearted here too,
They will not dye, there's nothing got by Burials.

_Lop_.

_Diego_, the Air's too pure, they cannot perish.
To have a thin Stipend, and an everlasting Parish,
Lord what a torment 'tis!

_Die_.

Good sensible Master,
You are allow'd to pray against all weathers,
(Both foul, and fair, as you shall find occasion)
Why not against all airs?

_Lop_.

That's not i'th' Canons.
I would it had, 'tis out of our way forty pence.

_Die_.

'Tis strange, they are starv'd too yet they will not die here,
They will not earth: a good stout plague amongst 'em,
Or half a dozen new fantastical Fevers
That would turn up their heels by whole-sale (Master)
And take the Doctors too, in their grave Counsels,
That there might be no natural help for mony:
How merrily would my Bells goe then?
_Lop_. Peace _Diego_,
The Doctors are our friends, let's please them well.
For though they kill but slow, they are certain, _Diego_,
We must remove into a muddy Air,
A most contagious Climate.

_Die_.

We must certain,