The Temple

A way enchased with glass and beadsThere is, that to the chapel leads:Whose structure, for his holy rest,Is here the halcyon's curious nest:Into the which who looks shall seeHis temple of idolatry,Where he of godheads has such store,As Rome's pantheon had not more.His house of Rimmon this he calls,Girt with small bones instead of walls.First, in a niche, more black than jet,His idol-cricket there is set:Then in a polished oval byThere stands his idol-beetle-fly:Next in an arch, akin to this,His idol-canker seated is:Then in a round is placed by theseHis golden god, Cantharides.So that, where'er ye look, ye see,No capital, no cornice free,Or frieze, from this fine frippery.Now this the fairies would have known,Theirs is a mixed religion:And some have heard the elves it callPart pagan, part papistical.If unto me all tongues were granted,I could not speak the saints here painted.Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis,Who 'gainst Mab's-state placed here right is;Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness,But alias called here Fatuus ignis;Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint FillieNeither those other saintships will IHere go about for to reciteTheir number, almost infinite,Which one by one here set down areIn this most curious calendar.First, at the entrance of the gateA little puppet-priest doth wait,Who squeaks to all the comers there:"Favour your tongues who enter here;Pure hands bring hither without stain."A second pules: "Hence, hence, profane!"Hard by, i' th' shell of half a nut,The holy-water there is put:A little brush of squirrel's hairs(Composed of odd, not even pairs,)Stands in the platter, or close by,To purge the fairy family.Near to the altar stands the priest,There off'ring up the Holy Grist,Ducking in mood and perfect tense,With (much-good-do-'t him) reverence.The altar is not here four-square,Nor in a form triangular,Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone,But of a little transverse bone;Which boys and bruckel'd children call(Playing for points and pins) cockal.Whose linen drapery is a thinSubtile and ductile codlin's skin:Which o'er the board is smoothly spreadWith little seal-work damasked.The fringe that circumbinds it tooIs spangle-work of trembling dew,Which, gently gleaming, makes a showLike frost-work glitt'ring on the snow.Upon this fetuous board doth standSomething for show-bread, and at hand,Just in the middle of the altar,Upon an end, the fairy-psalter,Grac'd with the trout-flies' curious wings,Which serve for watchet ribbonings.Now, we must know, the elves are ledRight by the rubric which they read.And, if report of them be true,They have their text for what they do;Aye, and their book of canons too.And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells,They have their book of articles;And, if that fairy-knight not lies,They have their book of homilies;And other scriptures that designA short but righteous discipline.The basin stands the board uponTo take the free oblation:A little pin-dust, which they holdMore precious than we prize our goldWhich charity they give to manyPoor of the parish, if there's any.Upon the ends of these neat rails,Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails,The elves in formal manner fixTwo pure and holy candlesticks:In either which a small tall bentBurns for the altar's ornament.For sanctity they have to theseTheir curious copes and surplicesOf cleanest cobweb hanging byIn their religious vestery.They have their ash-pans and their broomsTo purge the chapel and the rooms;Their many mumbling Mass-priests here,And many a dapper chorister,Their ush'ring vergers, here likewiseTheir canons and their chanteries.Of cloister-monks they have enow,Aye, and their abbey-lubbers too;And, if their legend do not lie,They much affect the papacy.And since the last is dead, there's hopeElf Boniface shall next be pope.They have their cups and chalices;Their pardons and indulgences;Their beads of nits, bells, books, and waxCandles, forsooth, and other knacks;Their holy oil, their fasting spittle;Their sacred salt here, not a little;Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease and bones;Beside their fumigationsTo drive the devil from the cod-pieceOf the friar (of work an odd piece).Many a trifle, too, and trinket,And for what use, scarce man would think it.Next, then, upon the chanters' sideAn apple's core is hung up dri'd,With rattling kernels, which is rungTo call to morn and even-song.The saint to which the most he praysAnd offers incense nights and days,The lady of the lobster is,Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss;And humbly chives of saffron bringsFor his most cheerful offerings.When, after these, h'as paid his vowsHe lowly to the altar bows;And then he dons the silk-worm's shed,Like a Turk's turban on his head,And reverently departeth thence,Hid in a cloud of frankincense,And by the glow-worm's light well guided,Goes to the feast that's now provided.

My muse in meads has spent her many hours,Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowersTo make for others garlands, and to setOn many a head here many a coronet;But, amongst all encircled here, not oneGave her a day of coronation,Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwoveA laurel for her, ever young as love--You first of all crown'd her: she must of dueRender for that a crown of life to you.