Pseudophilia

A Walking Hypocrite there was, whose pace,
Trunkhose, small ruffe, deminutiue in forme,
Shew'd to each man He was the child of grace,
Such were the vertues did his life adorne;
Nought could He heare that did of lightnesse come,
But He would stop his eares, or leaue the roome.

Discourse (thus would He say) of things deuine,
Soyle not your soules with such lasciuiousnesse:
Your vessels should with precious vertues shine,
As lamps of grace and lights of godlinesse;
But lasse for wo, sin's such a fruitfull weed,
Still as one dies another doth succeed.

Here one doth beate his braine 'bot practises,
There is another plotting wickednesse;
O how long Lord wilt thou blindfold their eyes,
In suffering them to worke vnrighteousnesse?
Well, I will pray for them, and Syons peace,
The prayers of Saints can no way chuse but please

Thus did this mirror of deuotion walke,
Inspir'd it seem'd with some Angelicke gift,
So holy was his life, so pure his talke,
As if the spirit of zeale had Ely left,
And lodg'd within his breast, it could not be,
Fuller of godly feruor then was He,

But see what end these false pretences haue,
Where zeale is made a cloke to couer sinne,
This whited wall to th'eye so seeming graue,
Like varnish'd tombes had ought but filth within,
For though of zeale He made a formall show,
In Fortune Alley was his Rendeuow.

There He repos'd there He his solace tooke,
Shrin'd neare his Saint, his female-puritan,
In place so priuate as no eye could looke,
To what they did, to manifest their shame:
But see heauens will, those eyes they least suspected,
First ey'd their shame, whereby they were detected.

Thus did his speech and practise disagree
In one exemplar, formall, regular,
In th'other loose through carnall libertie,
Which two when they do meete, so different are,
As there's no discord worse in any song,
Then twixt a hollow heart and holy tongue.

For He that doth pretend, and think't enough,
To make a shew of what He lest intends,
Shall ere the period of his dayes run through,
Beshrew himselfe for his mischieuous ends;
For he that is not good but would be thought,
Is worse by odds then this plaine dealing nough