Old Latimer preaching did fairly describe
A bishop, who ruled all the rest of his tribe;
And who is this bishop? and where does he dwell? 
Why truly ’tis Satan, Archbishop of Hell. 
And He was a primate, and He wore a mitre,
Surrounded with jewels of sulphur and nitre. 
How nearly this bishop our bishops resembles! 
But he has the odds, who believes and who trembles,
Could you see his grim grace, for a pound to a penny,
You’d swear it must be the baboon of Kilkenny:[2]
Poor Satan will think the comparison odious,
I wish I could find him out one more commodious;
But, this I am sure, the most reverend old dragon
Has got on the bench many bishops suffragan;
And all men believe he resides there incog,
To give them by turns an invisible jog. 
Our bishops, puft up with wealth and with pride,
To hell on the backs of the clergy would ride. 
They mounted and labour’d with whip and with spur
In vain—­for the devil a parson would stir. 
So the commons unhors’d them; and this was their doom,
On their crosiers to ride like a witch on a broom. 
Though they gallop’d so fast, on the road you may find ’em,
And have left us but three out of twenty behind ’em. 
Lord Bolton’s good grace, Lord Carr and Lord Howard,[3]
In spite of the devil would still be untoward: 
They came of good kindred, and could not endure
Their former companions should beg at their door. 
  When Christ was betray’d to Pilate the pretor
Of a dozen apostles but one proved a traitor: 
One traitor alone, and faithful eleven;
But we can afford you six traitors in seven. 
  What a clutter with clippings, dividings, and cleavings! 
And the clergy forsooth must take up with their leavings;
If making divisions was all their intent,
They’ve done it, we thank them, but not as they meant;
And so may such bishops for ever divide,
That no honest heathen would be on their side. 
How should we rejoice, if, like Judas the first,
Those splitters of parsons in sunder should burst! 
  Now hear an allusion:—­A mitre, you know,
Is divided above, but united below. 
If this you consider our emblem is right;
The bishops divide, but the clergy unite. 
Should the bottom be split, our bishops would dread
That the mitre would never stick fast on their head: 
And yet they have learnt the chief art of a sovereign,
As Machiavel taught them, “divide and ye govern.” 
But courage, my lords, though it cannot be said
That one cloven tongue ever sat on your head;
I’ll hold you a groat (and I wish I could see’t)
If your stockings were off, you could show cloven feet. 
  But hold, cry the bishops, and give us fair play;
Before you condemn us, hear what we can say. 
What truer affections could ever be shown,
Than saving your souls by damning our own? 
And have we not practised all methods to gain you;
With the tithe of the tithe of the tithe to maintain you;
Provided a fund for building you spittals! 
You are only to live four years without victuals. 
Content, my good lords; but let us change hands;
First take you our tithes, and give us your lands. 
So God bless the Church and three of our mitres;
And God bless the Commons, for biting the biters.