human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  Enlightenment, the popularity of democratic ideas, the Wilkes
controversy, the growth of Methodism, the growth of the novel,
Teach the Passions how to grow
With native Vigour; unconfined
By those vile Shackles, which the Mind
Yet will no _Heresies_ admit,
To gratify the _Pride of Wit_ (p. 30).
The _Muse_, who never lov'd the Town,
Ne'er flaunted in brocaded Gown;
Pleas'd thro' the hawthorn'd Vale to roam,
Or sing her artless Strain at Home,
Bred in plain Nature's simple Rules,
Far from the Foppery of Schools (p. 36).
_Servant to Christ!_ and what is that to me?
I keep a servant too, as well as He (p. 17).
The problem that the satirist faced in the sixties was, then,
implications.
Each vulgar Trade, each sweaty Brow
Hence ev'ry Blockhead, Knave, and Dunce,
Start into Preachers all at once (p. 29).
Hence Ignorance of ev'ry size,
Of ev'ry shape Wit can devise,
Altho' so dull it hardly knows, ...
When it is Day, or when 'tis Night,
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  Shall yet pretend to keep the Key
Of _God_'s dark Secrets, and display
His _hidden Mysteries_, as free
As if _God's privy Council_ He,
Shall to his Presence rush, and dare
Quit their beloved wrangling _Hall_,
More loudly in a _Church_ to bawl: ...
And full as fervent, on their Knees,
For _Heav'n_ they pray, as once for _Fees_; ...
The _Physic-Tribe_ their Art resign,
And lose the _Quack_ in the _Divine_; ...
Of a _New-birth_ they prate, and prate
The _Bricklay'r_ throws his _Trowel_ by,
And now _builds Mansions in the Sky_; ...
The _Waterman_ forgets his _Wherry_,
And opens a _celestial Ferry_; ...
The _Fishermen_ no longer set
For _Fish_ the Meshes of their Net,
But catch, like _Peter_, _Men of Sin_,
Pulls you by _Gravity up-Hill_, ...
By your _bad Deeds_ your _Faith_ you shew,
Quench the hot flame, O God, that Burns
And _Piety_ to _Phrenzy_ turns!
Turn not _Religion_'s Milk to Gall!
Let not thy _Zeal_ within thee nurse
A _holy Rage_! or _pious Curse_!
Far other is the _heav'nly Plan_,
Which the _Redeemer_ gave to Man (pp. 52-53).
Tho' this be _Form_--yet bend to _Form_ we must,
Fools _with it_ please, _without it_ Wits disgust (p. 3).
 For a survey of all Lloyd's work see Cecil J. L. Price, _A
 The Methodist was reviewed by _The Monthly Review_, XXV (1766),
pp. 341-343. _The Critical Review_ compared him with Swift.
E Lloyd [HW: Signature]
And Sold by RICHARDSON and URQUHART, under the
Nothing, search all creation round,
Nothing so _firmly good_ is found,
Whose substance, with such closeness knit,
_Corruption_'s _Touch_ will not admit;
But, spite of all incroaching stains,
Its native purity retains:
Whose texture will nor warp, nor fade,
Though moths and weather shou'd invade,
Which _Time_'s sharp tooth cannot corrode,
Proof against _Accident_ and _Mode_;
And, maugre each assailing dart,
Thrown by the hand of Force, or Art,
Remains (let Fate do what it will)
_Simple_ and _uncorrupted_ still.
_Virtue_, of constitution nice,
Quickly degen'rates into _Vice_;
And what was _Merit_ turns to _Crime_.
_Wisdom_, which men with so much pain,
With so much weariness attain,
May in a little moment quit,
And abdicate the throne of Wit,
And leave, a vacant seat, the brain,
For Folly to usurp and reign.
Should you but discompose the tide,
On which _Ideas_ wont to ride,
_Ferment_ it with a _yeasty Storm_,
Or with high _Floods of Wine_ deform;
Who is as wise, as wise can be,
In one short minute we shall find
The wise man gone, a fool behind.
_Courage_, that is all nerve and heart,
That dares confront Death's brandish'd dart,
That dares to single Fight defy
The stoutest Hector of the sky,
Whose mettle ne'er was known to slack,
Nor wou'd on thunder turn his back;
How small a matter may controul,
And sooth the fury of his soul!
Shou'd this intrepid Mars, his clay
Dilute with nerve-relaxing Tea,
Thin broths, thin whey, or water-gruel,
He is no longer fierce and cruel,
But mild and gentle as a dove,
The _Hero_'s melted down to _Love_.
The _juices_ soften'd, (here we note
More on the _juices_ than the _Coat_
Depends, to make a valiant Mars
Rich in the heraldry of scars)
The _Man_ is _soften'd_ too, and shews
No fondness for a bloody nose.
When _Georgy S--k----le shunn'd the Fray_,
He'd swill'd a little too much Tea.
_Chastity_ melts like sun-kiss'd snow,
When Lust's hot wind begins to blow.
Let but that _horrid Creature, Man_,
Breathe on a lady thro' her fan,
Her _Virtue_ thaws, and by and bye
Will of the _falling Sickness_ die.
Lo! _Beauty_, still more transitory,
Fades in the mid-day of its glory!
For _Nature_ in her kindness swore,
That she who kills, shall kill no more;
And in pure mercy does erase
Each killing feature in the face;
Plucks from the cheek the damask rose,
E'en at the moment that it blows;
Dims the bright lustre of those eyes
To which the Gods wou'd sacrifice;
Dries the moist lip, and pales its hue,
And brushes off its honied dew;
Flattens the proudly swelling chest,
Furrows the round elastic breast,
And all the Loves that on it play'd,
Are in a tomb of wrinkles laid;
Recalls those charms, which she design'd
To _please_, and not _bewitch_ Mankind;
But with too delicate a touch,
Heightening the _Ornaments_ too much,
She finds her daughters can convert
Blessings to curses, good to hurt,
Proof of parental love to give,
She blots them out that Man may live.
The hour will come (which let not me
Indulgent Nature, live to see!)
The hour will come, when _Chloe_'s form
Shall with its beauty feed the worm;
That face where troops of Cupids throng,
Whose charms first warm'd me into song,
Shall wrinkle, wither, and decay,
To Age, and to Disease, a prey!
_Chloe_, in whom are so combin'd
The charms of body and of mind,
As might to Earth elicit _Jove_,
Thinking his Heav'n well left for Love;
Perfection as she is, the hour
Will come, when she must feel the pow'r
Of _Time_, and to his wither'd arms,
Resign the rifling of her charms!
Must veil her beauties in a cloud,
A grave her bed, her robe a shroud!
When all her glowing, vivid bloom,
Must fade and wither in the tomb!
When she who bears the ensigns now,
Of Beauty's Priestess on her brow,
Shall to th' abhorr'd embrace of Death
Give up the sweetness of her breath!
When worms--but stop, _Description_, there--
My heart cannot the picture bear--
Sickens to think there is a day,
When _Chloe_ will be made a prey
To Death, a piece-meal feast for him
With rav'nous jaw to tear each limb,
And feature after feature eat,
While _Beauty_ only serves for _Meat_--
Wretched to know that this is true,
Forbear t' anticipate the view!
Hence, _Observation_!--take your leave!--
And kindly, _Memory_, deceive!
And when some forty years are fled,
And age has on her beauties fed,
Dear _Self-Delusion_! lend thy skill
To fancy she is _Chloe_ still!
_Cities_ and _Empires_ will decay,
And to _Corruption_ fall a prey!
_Athens_, of arts the native land,
Cou'd not the stroke of Time withstand;
There Serpents hiss, and ravens croak,
Where _Socrates_ and _Plato_ spoke.
Proud _Troy_ herself (as all things must)
Is crumbled into native dust;
Is now a pasture, where the beast
Strays for his vegetable feast,
Old _Priam_'s royal palace now
May couch the ox, the ass, the cow.--
_Rome_, city of imperial worth,
The mighty mistress of the earth;
_Rome_, that gave law to all the world,
Is now to blank Destruction hurl'd!--
Is now a sepulchre, a tomb,
To tell the stranger, "Here was _Rome_."--
View the _West Abbey_! there we see
How frail a thing is royalty!
Where crowns and sceptres worms supply,
And kings and queens, like lumber lie.
The _Tombs themselves_ are worn away,
And own the empire of _Decay_,
Mouldering like the royal dust,
Which to preserve they have in trust.
Nor has the _Marble_ more withstood
The rage of _Time_, than _Flesh and Blood_!
The _King of Stone_ is worn away,
As well as is the _King of Clay_--
Here lies a _King without a Nose_,
And there a _Prince without his Toes_;
Here on her back a _Royal Fair_
Lies, but a little worse for wear;
Those lips, whose touch cou'd almost turn
Old age to youth, and make it burn;
To which young kings were proud to kneel,
Are kick'd by every Schoolboy's heel;
Struck rudely by the _Showman's Wand_,
And crush'd by every callous Hand:
Here a _puissant Monarch_ frowns
In menace high to rival Crowns;
He threatens--but will do no harm--
Our _Monarch_ has not left an arm.
Thus all _Things_ feel the gen'ral curse,
_That all Things must with Time grow worse_.
But your Philosophers will say,
_Best Things grow worst when they decay_.
And many facts they have at hand
To prove it, shou'd you proofs demand.
As if _Corruption_ shut her jaw,
And scorn'd to cram her filthy maw,
With aught but dainties rich and rare,
And morsels of the choicest fare;
As garden Birds are led to bite,
Where'er the fairest fruits invite.
If _Phoebus'_ rays too fiercely burn,
The _richest Wines_ to _sourest_ turn:
And they who living _highly fed_,
Will breed a _Pestilence when dead_.
Thus _Aldermen_, who at each Feast,
Cram Tons of Spices from the East,
Whose leading wish, and only plan,
Is to learn how to _pickle Man_;
And make themselves a _human Tart_,
A _walking Pastry-Shop_, a _Gut_,
Shambles by Wholesale to inglut;
And gorge each high-concocted Mess
The art of Cookery can dress:
Yet spite of all, when _Death_ thinks fit
To take them off, lest t' other bit
Shou'd burst these _living Mummies_, able
Neither to eat, nor quit the Table;
Whether He Dropsy sends or Gout,
To fetch them by the Shoulders out;
Tho' living they were _Salt_ and _Spice_,
The carcase is not over nice;
And all may find, who have a _Nose_,
_Dead Aldermen_ are not a rose.
This reas'ning only serves to shew,
The world call'd _Natural_, is so.
But various instances proclaim,
'Tis in the _moral World_ the same.
Thus _Woman_, Nature's _chastest_ work,
_Lust-struck_, out-paramours the Turk;
Tho' _gentle_ as the suckling Child,
_Enrag'd_, than famish'd Wolves more wild;
A more fell minister of _Death_--
_Rime_ gives the instance in _Mackbeth_.
_Reason herself_, that _sober Dame_,
So mild, so temperate, so tame,
Her head once turn'd, and giddy grown,
Raving with phrenzy not her own,
Plays madder pranks, more full of spleen
Than any Hoyden of sixteen.
Whether she burns with _Love_ or _Hate_,
Or grows with _baseless Hopes_ elate,
With _Desperation_ is forlorn,
Or with imagin'd horrors torn,
If on _Ambition_'s swelling tide,
Reels like a drunkard, tempest-tost,
Or in the _Gulph of Pride_ is lost;
Whate'er the _leading Passion_ be,
That works the Soul's anxiety,
In each _Extreme_ th' effect is bad,
_Sense_ grows diseas'd, and _Reason_ mad.
Why shou'd the Muse of _Angels_ tell
Turn'd into _Devils_ when they fell?
Why search the Chronicles of _Hell_,
While _Earth_ examples it as well?
Why talk of _Satan_, while we see
Each day some new Apostacy?
_Tories_ to _Whigs_ convert, and _Whigs_,
Turn'd by the hand of _Int'rest_, take
The _Tory-part_, for Lucre's sake.
_Patriots_ turn _Placemen_, and support
Against their Country's good the Court;
Are bought with _Pensions_ to retire,
When drooping Kingdoms most require
Their aid----Tho' here the Muse wou'd fain
_Except_ ONE of the _pension'd Train_,
(_One_ meritorious 'bove the rest,
A _patriot Minister_, confest)
Yet strictest honour can't acquit
Instance on instance to my view
Come rushing, of the changeling crew,
That I could quarrel with my Nature,
To think that Man is such a Creature--
And are we all a fickle tribe,
Venal to ev'ry golden bribe?
Is there not one of honour found,
In all the List of _Placemen_ found?
Yes--_one_ there is, in perils tried,
Yet never known to _change his Side_,
Or _Principles_--nor think it strange,
He ne'er had _Principles_ to change,
And for a _Side_ (the proof is new)
He's _none_, because that _he has two_.
Throw him from _Party_'s giddy heights,
A _Cat in Politics_ he lights
Ever upon his feet; his heart
Clings both to _Whig_ and _Tory-part_;
And still keeps shifting with the Weather.
Who does not know that _T--s--d_'s he,
That reads the _Book of Ministry_?
Thus let us turn where'er we will,
_Each Machiavel_'s a _Changeling_ still.
But tho' among all _Nature_'s works
The seed of foul _Corruption_ lurks,
Yet no where is it known to bear
So vile a Crop on Ground so fair,
As when upon _Religion_'s root
_It raises Diabolic Fruit_.
When the Almighty Father's Love
Call'd Things to Being, from above
Millions of winged _Blessings_ flew,
Sent from his right hand, to bedew
The new-born Earth, and from their wings
Shed good on all _created Things_.
Precious and various tho' the store
Which down to Earth these Legates bore,
That _Heav'nly Spark_ we _Reason call_,
Was far the richest boon of all.
By _this_ we find _th' Almighty Cause_
From whom the World its Being draws;
_By whom Earth_'s plenteous Table's spread,
At which each living Creature's fed;
_Who_ gave the _Breath of Life_, and whence
This fine _Variety_ of _Sense_;
_Whose Hands_ unfold the azure sky,
Sublimely pleasing to _the Eye_;
_Who_ tun'd the feather'd Songster's throat,
Giving such softness to his note,
To fill the _Ear_ with dulcet sound,
And pour sweet Music all around;
Who on the teeming Branches plac'd
Such various Fruit to please the _Taste_;
What bounteous Hand perfum'd the _Rose_,
And ev'ry scented Flow'r that blows,
And wafts its fragrance thro' the Vale,
Courting the _Smell_ in ev'ry gale,
To _whom_ it is we owe so much
Substantial pleasure in the _Touch_;
And _whence_, superior to the whole,
Those raptures that transport _the Soul_;
_This_ gives our Gratitude to glow
To him, from whom such Blessings flow;
This teaches Man his _moral Part_,
And grafts _Religion_ in the Heart.
_Glory to God, good Will to Man,
And Peace on Earth_, compos'd the plan,
For which _Religion_ first came down,
And brought to Earth a _heav'nly Crown_.
Better her Purpose to complete,
And _Satan_'s Malice to defeat,
A Troop of _holy Genii_ came,
Co-workers in the glorious Scheme.
To each a scroll the Goddess gave,
On which these lines She did engrave:
"Go, teach the sons of Men to raise
Their voice unto their _Maker_'s praise.
Go, call forth _Charity_ to meet
Distress that seeks her in the Street;
Bid her the lame with Legs supply,
And be unto the blind an Eye;
A Mantle o'er the naked throw,
And reach a healing hand to Woe;
Visit the bed where Sickness lies,
And wipe the tears from Orphans eyes;
Bid her Affliction's hour beguile,
And teach the tear-worn Cheek to smile;
Bid her send Comfort to expell
Grief from the lonely Widow's Cell;
Make blunt the arrows of Mischance,
And ope the eyes of Ignorance;
To those lost Pilgrims point the Way,
Who in _Sin_'s tenfold Darkness stray,
Recall them from _Hell_'s thickest night,
And shew _Salvation_'s glorious Light;
For thus the World that Peace shall find,
For which it was by _God_ design'd."--
Such the commands _Religion_ gave,
When first she came the World to save,
Such the attendants in her Train,
When She began her holy Reign.
And when _Messiah_'s gracious Love
Urg'd him to leave the _Realms_ above,
Urg'd him to quit his _heav'nly Throne_,
His People's Trespass to atone,
And, tho' so long they had withstood
His Will, to wash them with his Blood;
The great Command he did renew,
To _give to God, and Man his due_;
Bade the bright _Sun of Faith_ arise,
And open'd Heav'n to mortal eyes,
More fair and pure than at her Birth.--
How mutilated now and marr'd,
Deform'd, distorted, mangled, scarr'd!
Thro' _modern Conventicles_ trace
The Goddess, you'll not know her face:
The _holy Genii_ all are fled,
And _Sprites_ and _Dev'ls_ come in their stead.
And now a counterfeiting Dame
Usurps _Religion_'s sacred Name,
But no more like in _Heart_ or _Face_,
Than _F--x_'s deeds to deeds of Grace.
Visit her at her _T-tt--m_ Seat,
You'll find she is an errant Cheat.
For _Satan_, Man's invet'rate foe,
Whose greatest joy is human woe,
Repining at the heav'nly Plan,
That promis'd so much Good to Man,
Us'd all his Malice, Wit, and Pow'r,
The World's great Blessings to devour.
Well the _malicious Spirit_ knew
Whence _Man_ his chief resources drew
Of Happiness, and saw confest,
Where all was good, _Religion_ best;
And at her unpolluted Heart
He aim'd his most envenom'd Dart.
He knew the Interest of _Hell_
Cou'd never on the _Earth_ go well,
While _pure Religion_ did maintain
O'er Man a sanctimonious reign.
With her he wag'd malicious War,
He might, if not destroy her, mar
Her Face; might with false Lights misguide,
And make her Combat on his side.
Highly did his _Ambition_ burn
Heav'n's Arms against itself to turn.
Nor would his _Malice_ triumph less,
To _damn_ where _God_ design'd to _bless_.
For this _the Fiend_ to Earth ascends,
To try his Int'rest with his Friends.
Long in his fiery Chariot hurl'd,
He had explor'd the pendent World;
Long had he search'd without avail,
Each _Mart of Villainy_, where _Vice_
Presides, and _Virtue_ bears no Price,
Are selling while the Devil buys.
Long had he search'd, but could not find
An _Agent_ suited to his Mind,
Who cou'd transact his Business well,
And do on Earth the work of Hell;
That he might at his leisure go,
And manage his Affairs below.--
Tir'd and despairing of a Friend
On whom he safely might depend,
At _T-tt--m_ he alights from Air--
_Magus_, that _Sorcerer_, was there.
Pleas'd _Satan_ somewhat nearer drew,
Look'd thro' him at a single view,
Bless'd his good Luck, and grinn'd aghast--
"'Tis well, for I have found at last,
The Thing I long have sought, in _Thee_,
Thus let me mark Thee for my own,
And from henceforth for _mine_ be known."
Then with out-stretched claws his Eyes
He _twisted_ diff'rent ways--the _Skies_
Are watch'd by _one_, and (strange to tell!)
The _other_ is the Guard of _Hell_.
Then thus--"'Tis fit thy Eyes shou'd roll,
_Cross_ as the purpose of thy Soul,
Fit that they look a diff'rent way,
Like what You _do_, and what You _say_;
Thy _Eye-balls_ now are pois'd and hung,
As even as thy _Heart_ and _Tongue_--
Prosper--to _me_, to _Hell_ (he cried)
Be true, but false to all beside.
_Riches are mine_--I will repay
For ev'ry Soul you lead astray--
Give out thyself a Light to shew
Which way 'tis best to Heav'n to go;
But lead the Pilgrims wrong, and shine
An _Ignis fatuus_ of mine--
Draw them thro' bog, thro' brake, thro' mire,
I'll dry them at a _rousing Fire_."
_Magus_ complacent smil'd--his Eyes
Twinkled with signs of Joy, one flies
Upward, and t'other down, like Scales,
Where this ascends, when that prevails--
Then _thrice_ he turn'd upon his heel,
And swore Allegiance to the _De'el_--
Right faithfully his _Oath_ he kept,
And might each Night before he slept
Boast of his labours to maintain,
And spread abroad his _Master_'s Reign;
Might boast the magic of his Rod
To whip away the _Love of God_,
For all of _God_ he makes appear
Has nought to _love_, but all to _fear_.
That debt, which _Gratitude_ each day
Paying, wou'd still own much to pay;
Instead of _Duty_ freely paid,
A _Tyrant_'s _hard Exaction_'s made.
Fitted the simple to cajole,
First of his Wits, and then his Soul,
He urges fifty false Pretences,
Preaching his Hearers from their Senses.
He knows his _Master_'s Realm so well,
An _Ollio_ made of _Conflagration_,
And _Beelzebub_ to help the Dish on;
The _nick-Names_ which _old Nick_ we call--
But he has ta'en especial care,
To have nor _Sense_ nor _Reason_ there.
A thousand scorching Words beside,
Over his tongue as glibly slide,
Familiar as a glass of wine,
Or a Tobacco-pipe on mine;
That You wou'd swear he was compleater,
Virgins he will seduce astray,
Only to shew the shortest Way
To _Heaven_, and because it lies
That they _may better see the Track_,
He lays them down _upon their Back_.
Domestic Peace he can destroy,
And the confusion view with Joy,
Children from Parents he can draw,
What's _Conscience_?--he is safe from _Law_--
The closest Union can divide,
Take Husbands from their Spouses' side,
But it turns out to better Use,
Wives from their Husbands to seduce;
And as their Journey lies _up-Hill_,
Ev'ry Incumbrance were an Ill;
And lest their Speed shou'd be withstood,
He takes their _Money_--_for their Good_.
Such is the Agent _Satan_ chose,
_Religion_'s Progress to oppose--
Too great the Task for _one_ was thought,
And _under-Agents_ must be sought--
On this high Enterprize intent,
A troop of _evil Sprites_ he sent,
Commission'd, wheresoe'er they found
_Hearts hollow, rotten, and unsound_,
Within those Breasts accurs'd to dwell,
Big with the Charge th' infernal Crew
To their belov'd Appointment flew;
With busy search thro' ev'ry Class,
Thro' ev'ry Rank of Men they pass,
In ev'ry Class of Men they find
Some _Hearts_ corrupted to their Mind,
Ev'ry Profession they explore,
Ev'ry Profession gives them more;
The higher Functions ransack'd, now
Each vulgar Trade, each sweaty Brow
Is search'd, and in them all were found,
_Some hollow, rotten, and unsound_.
In each depraved Bosom dwell
These _Sprites_, nor miss their native _Hell_.
Hence ev'ry Blockhead, Knave, and Dunce,
Start into Preachers all at once.
Hence Ignorance of ev'ry size,
Of ev'ry shape Wit can devise,
Altho' so dull it hardly knows,
Which are its Fingers, which its Toes,
Which is the left Hand, which the Right,
When it is Day, or when 'tis Night,
Shall yet pretend to keep the Key
Of _God_'s dark Secrets, and display
His _hidden Mysteries_, as free
As if _God_'s _privy Council_ He,
Shall to his Presence rush, and dare
To raise a _pious Riot_ there.
_Lawyers_ (a Commutation strange!)
_Coke Littleton_ for _Bible_ change;
Quit their beloved wrangling _Hall_,
More loudly in a _Church_ to bawl:
_Statutes at large_ are thrown aside,
And now the _Testament_'s their guide;
And full as fervent, on their Knees,
For _Heav'n_ they pray, as once for _Fees_;
Are banish'd, and now _Faith_'s the Word,
Of _Briefs_ no longer now they dream,
_Religion_ is the only Theme.
The _Physic-Tribe_ their Art resign,
And lose the _Quack_ in the _Divine_;
_Galen_ lies on the Shelf unread,
A _Pray'r-Book_ open in its stead;
_Salvation_ is the _only_ Want.
"_Throw Physic to the Dogs_," they cry,
'Twill never bring you to the Sky.
Of a _New-birth_ they prate, and prate
Let Fevers, Agues, take their turn,
To freeze the Patient, or to burn,
In vain he seeks the Physic Tribe,
No _Recipe_ will they prescribe,
But what is sovereign to controul
The Maladies that hurt the Soul.
And tho' while _Body-quacks_, with _Pill_
Or _Bolus_, 'twas their Trade to kill,
More miserably still, alack!
For the _diseased Soul_ they _quack_.
The _Sons of War_ sometimes are known
To fight with Weapons not their own,
Ceasing the _Sword of Steel_ to wield,
They take _Religion_'s _Sword and Shield_.
Ev'ry _Mechanic_ will commence
_Orator_, without _Mood_ or _Tense_.
_Pudding_ is _Pudding_ still, they know,
So, tho' the Preacher has no skill,
A _Sermon_ is a _Sermon_ still.
The _Bricklay'r_ throws his _Trowel_ by,
And now _builds Mansions in the Sky_;
The _Cobbler_, touch'd with _holy Pride_,
Flings his _old Shoes_, and _Last_ aside,
And now devoutly sets about
Cobbling of _Souls_ that _ne'er wear out_;
The _Baker_, now a _Preacher_ grown,
Finds Man _lives not by Bread alone_,
And now his Customers he feeds
With _Pray'rs_, with _Sermons_, _Groans_ and _Creeds_;
The _Tinman_, mov'd by Warmth within,
_Hammers_ the _Gospel_, just like _Tin_;
_Weavers inspir'd_ their _Shuttles_ leave,
_Sermons_, and _flimsy Hymns_ to weave;
_Barbers_ unreap'd will leave the Chin,
To trim, and shave the _Man within_;
The _Waterman_ forgets his _Wherry_,
And opens a _celestial Ferry_;
The _Brewer_, bit by Phrenzy's Grub,
Resigns, _those Waters_ to explore,
Which if You drink, you _thirst no more_;
The _Gard'ner_, weary of his Trade,
Chang'd to _Apollos_ in a Trice,
The _Fishermen_ no longer set
For _Fish_ the Meshes of their Net,
But catch, like _Peter_, _Men of Sin_,
For _catching_ is to _take them in_.
Well had the wand'ring Spirits sped,
And thro' the World their Poison spread,
Made Lodgments in each tainted Breast;
And each infected Heart possess'd.
The _wayward Bus'ness_ being done,
_Satan_ to make his Choice begun
Of _under-Ministers_, to do
What _One_ cou'd not be equal to.
A _second Agent_, like the first,
Who on _Dæmoniac Milk_ was nurst,
Had _Moorfields_ trusted to his Care,
For _Satan_ keeps _an Office_ there.
_Lean_ is the _Saint_, and _lank_, to shew
That _Flesh and Blood to Heav'n can't go_;
His Hair like _Candles_ hangs, a sign
How bright his _inward Candles_ shine.
Of _Satan_'s _Agents_ these _the Chief_,
A thousand others lend Relief,
And take some labour off their Hands,
Each as th' _internal Sprite_ commands:
But working with a _diff'rent Spell_,
They lead by various Ways to _Hell_.
Sickens the Soul? and is its state
With _Sin_'s Disease grown desperate?
To divers Quacks you may apply,
And _special Nostrums_ of them buy.
_Tottenham_'s the best accustom'd Place,
There _Magus squints_ Men into _Grace_.
_W-s--y_ sells Powders, Draughts, and Pills,
Sov'reign against all sorts of Ills,
_Assurance_ charms away the Fit,
Or at least makes it intermit--
_M-d--n_ the springs of Health _unlocks_,
And by his Preaching cures the _P----_
_R-m--ne_ works greater Wonders still,
Pulls you by _Gravity up-Hill_,
And for whate'er you do _amiss_,
Rewards you with _celestial Bliss_;
By your _bad Deeds_ your _Faith_ you shew,
'Tis but _believe_, and _up You go_.
To sell _Religion_'s _Pill and Drop_,
They teach their Patients how to fly
A _little perking, puppet-Priest_,
Has got the _Harlequino_-way,
His Patients Heav'nward to convey;
And their Salvation to advance,
A _Jig_ will _at the Altar dance_.
Such were the _Plenipo_'s in _Town_,
Who serv'd the _Diabolic_ Crown.
Not far remov'd, a _female Friend_
Gave Proofs, that _Satan_ might depend
On her best Service, and support,
For what serv'd him, to her was Sport.
Longing to taste how _Spirits_ kiss,
Bids _Chapels_ for her _Saints_ arise,
Where She may suck her _T----_'s Breath,
Expiring in _seraphic_ Death.
That _Satan_ better might succeed,
Of _other Agents_ he had need,
His _Country-Int'rest_ to support,
While _Dodd_ was _preaching_ to the Court.
The Town was left, and now his Flight
Bore to the _North_ the horrid _Sprite_;
Now had he travers'd many a League,
And felt, as _Spirits_ feel, Fatigue,
When, in a dark, romantic Wood,
In which an antique Mansion stood,
He spied, close to a Hovel-door,
Double he seem'd, and worn with Age,
Little adapted to engage
In _Love_'s hot War, too dry his Trunk
To cope with a lascivious Punk;
So humble too he seem'd, You'd swear,
_Humility_ herself was there;
So like a _Sawyer_ too he _bows_,
You'd think that he was _Meekness'_ Spouse;
But _Satan_ read his _Visage-lines_,
And found some favourable Signs,
That this _meek Saint_ might, _in the Dark_,
Tho' muffled in _Religion_'s Cloak
So close, that it might almost choak
A _Pharisee_, it might be still
Only a _Cloak_ to doff at Will;
His _Speech_ might be an acted Part,
A Language foreign to his _Heart_.
He knew, that tho' upon his _Tongue_,
_Religion_, a mere _Cant-word_, hung,
He might forget it in his _Work_,
And be at _Heart_ a very _Turk_.
_Finesse_ and _Trick_ wou'd ne'er succeed,
If Men wou'd only learn to read,
To read the Lines of _Nature_'s Pen,
Where Truth speaks out distinct and clear,
If we had but the Trick to hear.
So far'd it with _our Saint_, while He
Wou'd seem downright _Humility_,
Some honest Features cry'd aloud,
"Our Master is of Spirit proud."
Pass him with Bonnet on, his Lip
Will hang as low as to his Hip;
His bloated Eye its Venom darts,
And from its gloomy Socket starts;
And if the _Body_'s frame we scan,
He cannot be an _upright Man_.
And there are Proofs, from which we see
His _Body_ and his _Soul_ agree.
Altho' he is as fond of _Pray'rs_,
Yet shou'd he in the Church-yard spy
Some _tempting Wanton_ passing by,
E'en at the Moment that his Knee
Is bent in Sign of _Piety_,
Quick his _Devotion_ leaves the _Heart_,
And settles in some _other Part_;
The Book of _Pray'r_ is shut, and _Heav'n_
For the dear Charms of _Coelia_ giv'n.
Th' _Arch-Fiend_ this _saintly Sinner_ spied,
And with malicious Pleasure ey'd,
Well pleas'd to think that he had found
Such a _Hell-Factor_ above Ground;
And thus began th' infernal Sprite--
"_Libidinoso!_ if I'm right!
Art thou that Son of mine on Earth,
Whose deeds so loud proclaim thy Birth?
Of whom so many Strumpets tell
But Children know not whence they spring,
Whether by Beggar got, or King;
Yet I by _certain Marks_ can know,
Uncase--and let me see your Waist--
For there are private Tokens plac'd,
By which _my own_ I know--if there
No secret Lines of mine appear,
I claim Thee not--but if I see
Then art Thou _mine_--nay, never start--
And _Heav'n_ can claim _in Thee_ no Part"--
And now his sapless Trunk he stripp'd,
Like Culprits sentenc'd to be whipp'd,
When lo! th' _Initials_ rose to View,
And prov'd the Fiend's Conjecture true.
And all his Waist (detested Brand!)
Was scribbled with the _Dev'l's short Hand_;
Deeply engraven in his Skin--
Pleas'd the _grim Pow'r_ survey'd, and smil'd,
Embrac'd and said--"My darling Child,
Blest was the Hour, and blest the Spot,
Where Thou, _my 'Bidin_, wert begot.
Know then, you're not what You profess,
Her Son, whose Lands you do possess;
No--Thou'rt _my wayward Son_, a Witch
Litter'd thee in a loathsome Ditch;
And (for all Creatures love the Young
Which from their proper Loins are sprung)
To this old Mansion thee convey'd,
And in an Infant's Cradle laid:
And when the _Sorc'ress_ plac'd thee there,
She stole away the _native Heir_--
Right well hast Thou, my Boy, repaid
The _Obligations_ on thee laid,
And to thy Parents' Int'rest true
Hast prov'd thy Fortunes were thy due--
Go on--and, if thou canst, do more
(But 't may not be) than heretofore--
Keep the same Path You always trod,
Apply your Fortune to oppress,
And harrass _Virtue_ with Distress;
To hide your Blemishes use Paint,
To screen the _Villain_ play the _Saint_;
Affect _Religion_, _Church_ frequent,
Kneel, _seem_ to pray, and keep up _Lent_--
_Charity_ too must be display'd,
Give _Alms_--but not to those that need,
But only for the _Gallows feed_;
Whene'er you meet a _preaching Thief_,
Be prompt to reach him out Relief;
Or any of my vagrant Imps,
Approach Thee, to thy Mansion take,
And give them Welcome for my Sake;
But _needy Merit_ must not dare
To hope with these _thy Alms_ to share,
Commit _that_ to the _Bridewell_-lash,
But give it neither _Food_ nor _Cash_;
Distinguish'd Honour shalt thou gain
But--one Word more--My Mind misgives,
That _Virtue_ a near _Neighbour_ lives--
For in my search to find out Thee,
I spied in this Vicinity
A Knot of Friends, where I cou'd trace
_Honour_ emblazon'd in their Face,
These (for their Thoughts I plainly see)
Bear no good Will to you or me;
_Foolishly honest_, cheap they hold
And will maintain, to Conscience true,
Their Virtue, spite of Me and You.
Altho' your Influence be weak,
Oppose them for _opposing' Sake_,
Do ev'ry little Act of Spite,
And snarl, altho' You cannot bite--
Be faithful--there will come a Day,
When I thy Services will pay,
Will bring Thee to my Realm, and make
Thee _Pilot of the burning Lake_."
He said--and quick as Thought withdrew,
And to th' infernal Regions flew;
Blue sulph'rous streaks the Peasants scare,
Marking his passage thro' the Air--
_Libidinoso_ left behind,
Began revolving in his Mind
His Master's Promises, and sigh'd
To have them fully ratified;
Then homeward plodded, (but, be sure,
Resolv'd, if possible, on more
And greater Evils than before.
All vain was the Resolve--his Cup
Of _Wickedness_ was quite fill'd up,
And no Cup can another drop
Contain, when fill'd up to the Top.
Since all Improvement was forbid,
What cou'd he do, but what he did?
Nought he diminish'd of the Charge,
But acts _Hell_'s Minister at large.
A _Throat of Brass_, _Fame's hundred Tongues_,
Time out of Mind have been confest,
By _fifty Poets_, at the least,
Too little to count _Hybla's Bees_,
The _Leaves that cloathe the Forest-Trees_;
The _Sands that broider Neptune's Side_,
Or _Waves_ that on his Bosom ride;
The _Grains_ which rich _Sicilia_ yields,
The _Blades_ with which _Spring_ robes the Fields;
The _Stars_ which twinkling on the sight
_Jove_'s _Threshold_ make so glorious bright:
Or (if we may annex to these
To reckon up the sum of _Knaves_
That crawl on _Earth_, or sleep in _Graves_,
To count the _Prudes_ that crowd to _Pews_,
While their _Thoughts_ ramble to the _Stews_,
_Lords_, whose sole Merit is their _Place_,
_Ladies_, whose Worth's a _painted Face_,
Who find _my Lord_ has lost his _Force_
Or to abridge, and enter down
Or number those who _live by Ink_,
And _write_, altho' they cannot _think_;
_Critics_, who judge, but cannot read,
Or count _each Bard_ by _Self_ betray'd,
Who thought, when fondled by _his Maid_,
It was _Melpomene_ that smil'd,
And mark'd him for her fav'rite _Child_,
But finds the _Harvest_ of his Lines,
Is to _fast twice_ for _once he dines_.
As well the _Muse_ might one of these
Assay to do, and speed as well,
As if She should attempt to tell
The _Names_ and _Characters_ of _all_
That on the Name of _Satan_ call,
That preach, and lie, and whine, and cant,
Soldiers for _Hell's Church Militant_;
To spread _its Doctrines_ thro' the Land.
If task'd with such an endless Sum;
Nor wou'd the _Muse_, tho' one more Line
Wou'd all the Host of _Hell_ entwine,
Bestow another drop of Ink,
To map out an _infernal Sink_--
Thou God of Truth and Love! excuse
The _honest Anger_ of the _Muse_,
Warm in _thy Cause_, while She wou'd pray
That Thou from _Earth_ wou'd'st sweep away
Such _rotten Saints_, who wou'd conceal
Their _Fraud_ beneath the Name of _Zeal_!
Who, mask'd with _spurious Piety_,
And, while their hot Career they run,
Who, feigning to adore, make Thee
As if thy _right Hand_ did contain
Of ev'ry gracious Gift bereft,
Hence raining Floods of Grief and Woes,
On those that never were thy Foes,
Ordaining Torments for the doom
Of Infants, yet within the Womb:
By fifty false Devices more,
Which _Reason_ never heard before,
And _Methodists_ alone cou'd dream,
Thy boundless _Goodness_ they blaspheme!
Who (tho' our _Saviour_'s gracious Plan
Was to teach Happiness to Man,
By _friendly Arguments_ to win
The World from Slavery to Sin;
For He, who all Things knows, well knew,
That they to Duty are more true,
Who from a _filial Love_ obey,
And serve for _Gratitude_, than they
Who from a _coward Dread of Law_
Owe all their _Virtue_ to their _Awe_;
Who, tho' they seem so true, and just,
So strictly faithful to their Trust,
Will, if you take the _Gallows_ down,
Out-pilfer half the _Rogues_ in _Town_).
With saucy boldness will presume
To pass th' impenetrable gloom,
And lift the Curtain which we see
Is drawn betwixt the World and Thee;
Of nought but endless Torments speak,
To frighten and appall the weak;
Dwell on the horrid Theme with glee,
And fain themselves wou'd _Hangmen_ be;
With so much _Dread_ their _Hearers_ fill,
That they have neither _Pow'r_, nor _Will_,
Tho' _Heav'n_'s the Prize, to move a Hand,
But _shuddering_ and _trembling_ stand.
Quench the hot Flame, O God, that burns,
And _Piety_ to _Phrenzy_ turns!
Let not thy _holy Name_ be made
A _Cloak_ to hide a _pilf'ring Trade_!
Nor suffer that thy _sacred Word_,
Be turn'd to _Rhapsody absurd_!
Let it not serve, like _Magic Sticks_,
To preface _pious Jugglers'_ Tricks!
Root, root from _Earth_, these baneful weeds,
That choak _Religion_'s _wholesome Seeds_!
Give them the headlong Winds to bear,
And scatter in a desart Air!
Grind them to Powder, that no more
They sprout and grow as heretofore!
Burn the rank stalks, and let the flame
Thy Garden's hot luxuriance tame,
Nor let it Flow'r, or Plant produce,
But what yields _Ornament_ or _Use_!
But soft--my _Muse_! thy Breath recall--
Turn not _Religion_'s Milk to Gall!
Let not thy _Zeal_ within thee nurse
A _holy Rage_, or _pious Curse_!
Far other is the _heav'nly Plan_,
Which the _Redeemer_ gave to Man,
Who taught the World in Peace to live,
And e'en _our Enemies_ forgive!
Live then, _ye Wretches_! to declare,
How long _our God_ with Men _can bear_!
A living Monument to be
Of the _Almighty_'s Clemency!
Who still is good, altho' You preach
Yourselves almost 'bove _Mercy_'s reach;
And, tho' his goodness You resist,
Can even spare a _Methodist_.
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