To the Ghost of Robert Wisdome

Thou, once a body, now but aire,
Arch-botcher of a psalme or prayer,
From Carfax come;
And patch mee up a zealous lay,
With an old ever and for ay,
Or, all and some.
Or such a spirit lend mee,
As may a hymne downe send mee,
To purge my braine:
So, Robert, looke behind thee,
Least Turke or Pope doe find thee,
And goe to bed againe.