Pray ye buy Books, buy Books,
You have a learned head, stuff it with Libraries,
And understand 'em, when ye have done, 'tis Justice.
Run not the Parish mad with Controversies,
Nor preach Abstinence to longing Women,
'Twill burge the bottoms of their Consciences:
I would give the Church new Organs, but I prophesie
The Church-wardens would quickly pipe 'em out o'th' Parish,
Two hundred Duckets more to mend the Chancel,
And to paint true Orthographie, as many,
They write _Sunt_ with a _C_, which is abominable,
'Pray you set that down; to poor Maidens Marriages.
_Lop_.
I that's well thought of, what's your will in that point?
A meritorious thing.
_Bar_.
No end of this Will?
_Die_.
I give _per annum_ two hundred Ells of Lockram,
That there be no strait dealings in their Linnens,
But the Sails cut according to their Burthens.
To all Bell-ringers, I bequeath new Ropes,
And let them use 'em at their own discretions.
_Ars_.
You may remember us.
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