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 Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb hanging by In their religious vestery. They have their ash-pans and their brooms To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling Mass-priests here, And many a dapper chorister, Their ush'ring vergers, here likewise Their 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 hope Elf Boniface shall next be pope. They have their cups and chalices; Their pardons and indulgences; Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax Candles, 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 fumigations To drive the devil from the cod-piece Of 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' side An apple's core is hung up dri'd, With rattling kernels, which is rung To call to morn and even-song.