To Vicar Blunder

Those iron Lungs of thine, and throat of brasse,
(To whose crackt bore loud Stentors wind-pipe was
But a small Reed) cannot with vengeance sacke
Our garnisht wals, or painted windows cracke.
Whereat thou weep'st, as if the fervent paine
Of zealous griefe did melt thy Leaden braine:
Yet (as a puddle soone congeales to Ice)
Thou straight art hardned to thy quaffing vice.
Thus deepe mouth'd Thumper, after fruitlesse paine
In hunting Counter, fals to's lappe againe.