The Spanish Curate: A Comedy. Beaumont Francis

      Peace, the Vicar: send ye a full sail, Sir.

      There's your Confessor, but what shall be your penance?

      A fools head if I fail, and so forsake me.

      You shall hear from me daily.

      We will be ready.

      Thin world indeed!

      I'le let him breath and mark him:

      No man would think a stranger as I am

      Should reap any great commodity from his pigbelly.

      Poor stirring for poor Vicars.

      And poor Sextons.

      We pray and pray, but to no purpose,

      Those that enjoy our lands, choak our Devotions.

      Our poor thin stipends make us arrant dunces.

      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.

      When was there a Christning, 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.

      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.

      They are so hard-hearted here too,

      They will not dye, there's nothing got by Burials.

      Diego, the Air's too pure, they cannot perish.

      To have a thin Stipend, and an everlasting Parish,

      Lord what a torment 'tis!

      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?

      That's not i'th' Canons.

      I would it had, 'tis out of our way forty pence.

      '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?

      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.

      We must certain,

      An air that is the nursery of agues,

      Such agues (Master) that will shake mens souls out,

      Ne're stay for Possets, nor good old wives plasters.

      Gowts and dead Palsies.

      The dead do's well at all times,

      Yet Gowts will hang an arse a long time (Master)

      The Pox, or English Surfeits if we had 'em;

      Those are rich marle, they make a Church-yard fat,

      And make the Sexton sing, they never miss, Sir.

      Then Wills and Funeral Sermons come in season,

      And Feasts that make us frolick.

      Would I could see 'em.

      And though I weep i'th' Pulpit for my Brother,

      Yet (Diego) here I laugh.

      The cause requires it.

      Since people left to die I am dunce, Diego.

      Die. 'Tis a strange thing, I have forgot to dig too.

      A pretious pair of youths! I must make toward'em.

      Who's that? look it seems he would speak to us.

      I hope a Marriage, or some Will to make, Diego.

      My friend your business?

      'Tis to that grave Gentleman;

      Bless your good learning, Sir.

      And bless you also,

      He bears a promising face, there's some hope toward.

      I