Title: The Methodist - A Poem
Author: Lloyd, Evan, 1734-1776
Language: English
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The Augustan Reprint Society

EVAN LLOYD

THE METHODIST.

A Poem.

(1766)

Introduction by Raymond Bentman



Publication Number 151-152
William Andrews Clark Memorial Library
University Of California, Los Angeles
1972



GENERAL EDITORS

William E. Conway, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library
George Robert Guffey, University of California, Los Angeles
Maximillian E. Novak, University of California, Los Angeles
David S. Rodes, University of California, Los Angeles


ADVISORY EDITORS

Richard C. Boys, University of Michigan
James L. Clifford, Columbia University
Ralph Cohen, University of Virginia
Vinton A. Dearing, University of California, Los Angeles
Arthur Friedman, University of Chicago
Louis A. Landa, Princeton University
Earl Miner, University of California, Los Angeles
Samuel H. Monk, University of Minnesota
Everett T. Moore, University of California, Los Angeles
Lawrence Clark Powell, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library
James Sutherland, University College, London
H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., University of California, Los Angeles
Robert Vosper, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library
Curt A. Zimansky, State University of Iowa


CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

Edna C. Davis, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library


EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Jean T. Shebanek, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library



INTRODUCTION


Evan Lloyd's works consist chiefly of four satires written in 1766
and 1767,[1] all of which are now little-known. What little notice he
receives today results from his friendship with John Wilkes and David
Garrick and from one satire, _The Methodist_, which is usually included
in surveys of anti-Methodist literature.[2] For the most part, his
obscurity is deserved. In _The Methodist_, however, he participates in
a short-lived revolt against the tyranny of Augustan satire and shows
considerable evidence of a talent that might have created a new style
for formal verse satire.

The seventeen-sixties were a difficult period for satire. The struggle
between Crown and Parliament, the new industrial and agricultural
methods, the workers' demands for higher pay, the new rural and urban
poor, the growth of the Empire, the deteriorating relations with the
American colonies, the increasing influence of the ideas of the
Enlightenment, the popularity of democratic ideas, the Wilkes
controversy, the growth of Methodism, the growth of the novel,
the interest in the gothic and the picturesque and in chinoiserie,
sentimentality, enthusiasm--all these activities made England a highly
volatile country. Some changes were truly dynamic, others just fads.
But to someone living in the period, who dared to look around him, the
complexity of the present and the uncertainty of the future must have
seemed enormous.

To a satirist, such complexity makes art difficult. Satire usually deals
with every-day realities, to which it applies simple moral ideals. The
Augustan satiric alternative--returning to older beliefs in religion,
government, philosophy, art--and the stylistic expression of such
beliefs--formal verse satire and epistle, mock-poem, heroic or
Hudibrastic couplet, diction of polite conversation, ironic metaphysical
conceits, fantastic fictional situations--become irrelevant to the
satirist writing when the past seems lost. In his later works, Pope
took Augustan satire about as far as it could go. _The Epilogue to the
Satires_ becomes an epilogue to all Augustan satire and the conclusion
of _The New Dunciad_ declares the death of its own tradition. There is a
sense now that England and the world have reached the point of no return.
The satirist of the seventeen-sixties who repeats the ideas and styles
of Butler, Dryden, Swift, Gay, and Pope seems not only imitative but
out-of-touch with the world around him.

But such difficulties can provide the impetus for new forms and for
original styles. And in the seventeen-sixties the writers of formal
satire show signs of responding to the challenge. Christopher Anstey,
Charles Churchill, Robert Lloyd, and Evan Lloyd seem, during this decade,
to be developing their considerable facilities with satiric technique
toward the creation of new styles. Anstey's _New Bath Guide_ has a
combination of epistolary fiction, realism, use of naive observers,
changing points of view, sweeping view of the social scene, great range
of subjects, rolicking verse forms, and tone of detached amusement which
suggests a satirist who, while still largely derivative, had the talent
to create new techniques. Churchill and Robert Lloyd are explicit in
their wish to break from Augustan style. Churchill argues that it was "a
sin 'gainst Pleasure, to design / A plan, to methodize each thought, each
line / Highly to finish." He claims to write "When the mad fit comes on"
and praises poetry written "Wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild"
(_Gotham_ [1764], II, 167-169, 172, 212). His satire--with its
deliberate, irreverant, "Byronic" run-on lines, fanciful digressions,
playful indifference to formal structure, impulsively involuted syntax,
long, wandering sentences--seems to move, as does Robert Lloyd's satire
(at a somewhat slower pace), toward a genuinely new style. In being
chatty, fluid, iconoclastic, spontaneous-sounding, self-revealing, his
satire might eventually prove capable of dealing with the problems that
the Augustan satirists had predicted but did not have to deal with so
directly. But both Churchill and Robert Lloyd died before they could
develop their styles to the point that they had a new, timely statement
to make. Anstey failed to develop beyond the _New Bath Guide_, and his
influence proved to be more important on the novel than on verse satire.

Evan Lloyd's first satire, _The Powers of the Pen_, is a clever but
ordinary satire on good and bad writing. It has some historical interest
as an example of the early influence of Rousseau in England, of part of
the attack on Samuel Johnson for his adverse criticism of Shakespeare,
of the influence of Churchill (Lloyd declared himself a disciple), and
of the expression of the fashionable interest in artlessness which was
influenced as much by Joseph Warton as by Rousseau. In a "quill shop" the
narrator discovers magic pens which write like various authors. The one
whose "Mate was purchas'd by Rousseau" can:

        Teach the Passions how to grow
    With native Vigour; unconfined
    By those vile Shackles, which the Mind
    Wears in the _School of Art_....
    Yet will no _Heresies_ admit,
    To gratify the _Pride of Wit_ (p. 30).

He advances these critical dicta elsewhere in this satire, condemning
Johnson because he tries "Nature" by "_Critic-law_" (p. 21). With
fashionable Rousseauistic ideas he praises:

    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).

Evan Lloyd, Robert Lloyd, and Churchill, starting from somewhat different
philosophic principles, all arrive at similar positions.

_The Curate_, his second satire, is largely autobiographical. It shows,
as does _The Powers of the Pen_, some clever turns of phrases, pithy
expressions, and amusing images. It also contains incisive criticism of
corruption in the Church, of declining respect for Christianity, and,
what seems to Lloyd almost the same thing, of a collapsing class
structure. The Church wardens, "uncivil and unbred! / Unlick'd, untaught,
un-all-things--but unfed!" are "but sweepers of the pews, / The
_Scullions of the Church_, they dare abuse, / And rudely treat their
betters" (pp. 16-17). They show a lack of proper respect both for
class-structure and Christianity:

   _Servant to Christ!_ and what is that to me?
    I keep a servant too, as well as He (p. 17).

But _The Curate_ frequently descends to a whine. The curate is morally
above reproach while those above him are arrogant and those below him are
disrespectful.

The most serious problem with _The Curate_, however, is the same as the
problem with all of Lloyd's satires except _The Methodist_, and the same
as the problem with almost all satires between Pope and Burns or Blake.
The satirist seems unwilling to probe, to find out what are the
political, ethical, psychological, or aesthetic forces that cause the
problems which the satirist condemns, and to recommend what can be done
to change these forces. If the satirist notes any pattern at all, it is
one of ineffective, unmoving abstraction and generality.

One explanation for this deliberate avoidance of more profound issues
is not hard to find. An astonishing number of satires of this period
contain a large proportion of lines devoted to describing how wonderful
everything is. The widespread conviction that whatever is, in the England
of the late eighteenth century, is right, may have resulted from the
influence of _An Essay on Man_. Or the _Essay_ may have been popular
because it expressed ideas already in general acceptance. But whatever
the explanation is, the catch-phrases extracted from Pope's most popular
work become the touchstones of post-Augustan satire.

The problem that the satirist faced in the sixties was, then,
formidable. The country was in upheaval but the conventions demanded
that the satirist say everything was nearly perfect. As a result, satire
tended toward personal whines, like _The Curate_, toward attacking
tiresomely obvious objects, like the superficial chit-chat of Lloyd's
_Conversation_, toward trivial quarrels, like Churchill's _Rosciad_,
toward broadly unimpeachable morals, like Johnson's _The Vanity of Human
Wishes_. It is understandable that many writers, such as Joseph Warton
and Christopher Smart, abandoned satire for various kinds of enthusiasm.

Methodism lent itself to such satire. Methodists could be described as
unfortunate aberrants from an essentially good world, typical of those
bothersome fanatics and deviants at the fringe of society who keep this
world from being perfect. They were also logical heirs to the satire once
visited upon Dissenters but which diminished when Dissenters became more
restrained in their style of worship. (The Preface to one anti-Methodist
satire even takes pains to exclude "rational Dissenters" from its
target.) Many Methodists were followers of Calvin. These Methodists
brought out the old antagonisms against the Calvinist doctrine of
Election (or the popular version of it), directed against its severity,
its apparent encouragement of pride, and its antinomian implications. The
mass displays of emotion at Methodist meetings would be distasteful to
many people in most periods and probably were especially so in an age in
which rational behavior was particularly valued. And there were those
people who believed that Methodism, in spite of Wesley's arguments to the
contrary, led good members of the Church of England astray and threatened
religious stability.

Yet all these causes do not explain the harshness of anti-Methodist
satire. No other subject during this period received such severe
condemnation. Wesley and Whitefield were accused of seducing their
female converts, of fleecing all their converts of money, of making
trouble solely out of envy or pride. Evan Lloyd is not so harsh nor
so implacably bigoted about any other subject as he is about Methodism.
He was an intimate friend of John Wilkes, the least bigoted of men.
Also, there are essential differences between the Dissenters of the
Restoration and the Methodists of the late eighteenth century that would
seem to lessen the antagonism toward the Methodists. To the satirists of
the Restoration, Dissenters were reminders of civil war, regicide, the
chaos that religious division could bring. Now the only threat of
religious war or major civil disturbance had come from the Jacobites,
and even that threat was safely in the past. It is notable that Swift,
Pope, and Gay tended to satirize Dissenters within the context of
larger problems. The assault on Methodists, then, is actually not a
continuation of anti-Dissenter satire but something new. Hence the whole
movement of anti-Methodist satire in the sixties and seventies has an
untypically violent tone which cannot be explained solely in terms of
satiric trends or religious attitudes. The explanation lies, I think,
partly in the social, political, and economic background.

The Methodist movement was perhaps the most dramatic symptom (or at least
the symptom hardest to ignore) of the changes taking place in England.
The Methodist open-air services were needed because new industrial areas
had sprung up where there were no churches, and lay preachers were
necessary because of population shifts but also because of the increase
in population made possible by new agricultural and manufacturing
methods. The practice of taking lay preachers from many social classes
had obvious democratic implications. Wesley, in spite of his political
conservatism, challenged a number of widely-held, complacent aphorisms,
such as the belief that people are "poor only because they are idle."[3]
The mass emotionalism of the evangelical meetings were reminders that man
was not so rational as certain popular ideas tried to make him. Wesley's
insistence (with irritatingly good evidence) that he did no more than
adhere to the true doctrine of the Church of England strongly suggested
that the Church of England had strayed somewhere. (It is rather
interestingly paralleled by Wilkes's insistence that he only wanted to
return to the Declaration of Rights, a reminder that the government had
also strayed.) And Methodism, by its very existence and popularity, posed
the question of whether the Church of England, in its traditional form,
was capable of dealing with problems created by social and economic
changes.

These social, economic, and political issues are touched upon by a number
of the anti-Methodist satirists. Most of these satirists, however, are
contented simply to complain about the lower class tone of the Methodist
movement, to note generally, as Dryden and Swift had noted before, that
Protestantism contained the seeds of mob rule. The anonymous author of
_The Saints_ fears "Their frantic pray'r [is] a mere _Decoy_ for _Mob_"
(p. 4) and the author[4] of _The Methodist and Mimic_ claims that
Whitefield's preaching sends "the Brainless Mob a gadding" (p. 15). Evan
Lloyd is the one anti-Methodist satirist who explores the larger
implications.

Lloyd constructs his satire around the theme of general corruption, that
nothing is so virtuous that it cannot be spoiled either by man's weakness
or by time. The theme is common in the period and could have become
banal, except that Lloyd applies it to the corruption of the Church
and its manifestations in daily life, giving it an immediate, lively
reference. The Methodist practice of lay preachers, for example, Lloyd
treats as an instance of the collapse of the class system:

    Each vulgar Trade, each sweaty Brow
    Is search'd....
    Hence ev'ry Blockhead, Knave, and Dunce,
    Start into Preachers all at once (p. 29).

Lloyd combines the language of theology, government, and civil order to
suggest a connection between recent riots, the excesses of the Earl of
Bute, the Protestant belief that religious concepts are easily understood
by all social classes, democracy, the emotional displays of Methodism,
and lay preachers:

    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,
    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 (pp. 29-30).

Lloyd presents an essentially disorderly world in which chaos spreads
almost inevitably, in which riots, corrupt ministers, arrogant fools,
disrespectful lower classes, giddy middle classes, and lascivious upper
classes are barely kept in check by a system of social class, government,
and church. Now, with the checks withdrawn, lawyers and physicians spread
their own disorder even further as they:

    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
    While _Midwifry_ is out of Date (pp. 30-31).

He combines the language of tradesmen with the language of mythology and
theology to suggest, rather wittily and effectively, that disorder can be
commonplace and cosmic simultaneously:

      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_,
    For _catching_ is to _take them in_ (pp. 32-34).

This spreading confusion is, however, not just a passing social problem
but one that results from many breasts being "tainted" and many hearts
"infected" (p. 34). The corruption is almost universal and results in
Wesley (as he actually did) selling "Powders, Draughts, and Pills." Madan
"the springs of Health _unlocks_,/ And by his Preaching cures the
_P_[_ox_]," (he was Chaplain of Lock Hospital) and Romaine:

    Pulls you by _Gravity up-Hill_, ...
    By your _bad Deeds_ your _Faith_ you shew,
    'Tis but _believe_, and _up You go_ (p. 36).

Lloyd treats the confusion between sexual desire and religious fervor
as another aspect of general human depravity, extending the satire
beyond the crude accusation of hypocrisy or cynicism. He argues that
the confusion is a part of the human condition, allowed to go out of
control by a religion that puts passion before reason. The Countess of
Huntingdon, "cloy'd with _carnal_ Bliss," longs "to taste how _Spirits_
kiss." In his all-inclusive catalogue of "_Knaves_/ That crawl on
_Earth_" Lloyd includes "_Prudes_ that crowd to _Pews_,/ While their
_Thoughts_ ramble to the _Stews_" (p. 48).

What makes Lloyd interesting, in spite of his many derivative ideas and
techniques, is inadvertently pointed out by the _Critical Review_, which
complains that "the author outmethodizes even Methodism itself."[5] That
the brutal tone of _The Methodist_ went beyond the license usually
permitted the satirists was recognized by Lloyd himself. At the
conclusion of the satire he asks God to halt the Methodist movement
by getting to its source:

    Quench the hot flame, O God, that Burns
    And _Piety_ to _Phrenzy_ turns!

And then, after a few lines, he applies the same terms to himself:

    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 (pp. 52-53).

The satirist, as Robert C. Elliott points out, has always, in art,
satirized himself.[6] But there is here as throughout this satire, some
attempt to develop a style which will express the belief that the world
will always be disorderly and that the disorder stems from man's "Zeal
within." This condition of the world can be expressed satirically by a
personal, informal satire which recognizes and dramatizes just how
universal the corruption is and how commonplace its manifestations have
become.

The informal, disorderly syntax, the colloquial diction, the chatty tone,
the run-on lines, the conscious roughness of meter and rhyme, may have
derived from Churchill, but they become here more relevant than in any
of Churchill's satires. They combine with the intemperate tone and the
satirist's concluding confession, his self-identification with the object
of satire, to create a sense of an unheroic satirist, one who does not
represent a highly commendable satiric alternative. Satire must now turn
its vision from the heroic, the apocalyptic, the broadly philosophical,
even from the depraved, and become exceedingly ordinary. It must
recognize that there is little hope in going back to lofty Augustan
ideals. For such subjects, it uses the impulsive tone of an
over-emotional satirist who is as flawed as the subject he satirizes
and still represents the best of a disordered world.

Lloyd had attempted an autobiographical satire in _The Curate_. He failed
to create an important satire for a number of reasons, one of which was
that he tried to present himself as a high ideal, a belief that he
apparently held so weakly that the satire became merely petulant. Lloyd
corrected this error in _The Methodist_ and now seems, however briefly,
to have opened the way to a truly prophetic style of satire.

After _The Methodist_ Lloyd wrote _Conversation_, a satire that not only
failed to fulfill the promise of _The Methodist_ but is more conservative
in theme and style than any of his earlier satires.

After that work he produced little. He published an expanded version of
_The Power of the Pen_ and a dull ode printed in _The Annual Register_.
When William Kenrick, in _Love in the Suds_, implied that Garrick was
Isaac Bickerstaff's lover, Lloyd defended Garrick in _Epistle to David
Garrick_. Kenrick replied with _A Whipping for the Welch Parson_, an
ironic Dunciad-Variorum-type editing of Lloyd's _Epistle_, in which he
got much the better of Lloyd. Lloyd was no match for Kenrick at this sort
of thing. Except for these uninteresting productions and his convivial
friendship with Wilkes and Garrick, we hear not much more of Lloyd.

We know so little about his life that we can only speculate why he failed
to follow up the promise of _The Methodist_; why, after favorable reviews
from the journals[7] and the flattering friendship of famous men, he was
not encouraged to continue a career that was as promising as the early
career of many famous satirists. The explanation may lie solely in his
personality. Perhaps the moderate success he achieved and the financial
rewards it brought were enough for him.

Another explanation is suggested by the conservative ideas and style of
_Conversation_, which are more like Pope's than are the ideas and style
of any earlier satire of Lloyd's. In this satire he explicitly repudiates
his older, freer critical dicta in both theory and practice:

    Tho' this be _Form_--yet bend to _Form_ we must,
    Fools _with it_ please, _without it_ Wits disgust (p. 3).

He uses mostly end-stop couplets, parallel constructions, Augustan
diction and similes. Apparently, he began his rejection of his new ideas
and style immediately after _The Methodist_ and before his 1766-1767
outburst of satire-writing was over.

Lloyd, in writing _The Methodist_, seems to have come as close as any
satirist before Blake and the writers of _The Anti-Jacobin_ to seeing the
problems England and the world were headed toward, to recognizing how
genuinely volatile English society was in the middle of the century, and
to creating a style which could deal with those problems satirically. It
may be that he got some realization that his own long passages in _The
Methodist_ praising this best of all possible worlds (pp. 16-20) and his
invocation to the "heav'nly Plan" at the conclusion made no sense, that
they were contradicted by other passages in the same satire, that England
and the world were changing with enormous rapidity, and that the satirist
would have to create a new style to express the tremendous economic,
political, social, and religious problems that were coming into being. It
may be that getting such a faint notion he withdrew into artistic
conservatism, into conviviality, and into silence.


Temple University



NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION


[1] For a survey of all Lloyd's work see Cecil J. L. Price, _A
    Man of Genius and a Welch Man_ (University of Swansea, Wales,
    1963). Lloyd is the subject of an unpublished dissertation,
   _The Moral Beau_, by Paul E. Parnell (New York University, 1956).
    Two short passages from _The Methodist_ are included in _The Penguin
    Book of Satirical Verse_, ed. Edward Lucie-Smith (Baltimore, 1967).

[2] Most recently, Albert M. Lyles, _Methodism Mocked_ (London, 1960).

[3] Journal, 8 February 1753, quoted by A. R. Humphreys, _The Augustan
    World_ (New York, 1963), p. 20.

[4] The pseudonymous author, Peter Paragraph, is identified by Halkett
    and Laing, _Dictionary of Anonymous and Pseudonymous English
    Literature_, as James Makittrick Adair. Adair did write some works
    under that pseudonym but probably did not write _The Methodist and
    Mimic_. Lyles, _op. cit._, p. 129n., suggests that the author may
    be Samuel Foote, in whose play, _The Orators_, a character, Peter
    Paragraph, appears, probably representing George Faulkner. Robert
    Lloyd, in "The Cobbler of Cripplegate's Letter," hints that Peter
    Paragraph may be Bonnel Thornton.

[5] _The Critical Review_, XXIII (1766), pp. 75-77.

[6] _The Power of Satire_ (Princeton, 1960), p. 222 and _passim_.

[7] The Methodist was reviewed by _The Monthly Review_, XXV (1766),
    pp. 319-321, and _Gentleman's Magazine_, XXXVI (1766), p. 335.
   _Conversation_ was reviewed more favorably by _The Monthly Review_,
    XXXVII (1767), p. 394, and by _The Critical Review_ XXIV (1767),
    pp. 341-343. _The Critical Review_ compared him with Swift.



BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

This facsimile of _The Methodist_ (1766) is reproduced from a copy [840.
k. 10. (18.)] in the British Museum by kind permission of the Trustees.



THE
METHODIST.

A
POEM.

BY
E Lloyd [HW: Signature]

AUTHOR OF
The Powers of the Pen, and The Curate.


LONDON:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR;
And Sold by RICHARDSON and URQUHART, under the
ROYAL-EXCHANGE, CORNHILL.

MDCCLXVI.



THE METHODIST.


    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_;
    Change but the _Person_, _Place_, and _Time_,
    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;
    Altho' _Sir Oracle_ is he,
    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_;
    Who more than vie with _Ægypt_'s art,
    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,
    Her crazy bark from side to side,
    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_,
   _Mere Ministerial Whirlegigs_,
    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
    That _Pensioner_, who once was _P----_.
    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_;
    Is _this_, is _that_, is _both_, or _neither_,
    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,
    Leaving _Religion_ on the Earth,
    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 _Meeting_, _Dungeon_, _Court_, and _Jail_,
    Each _Mart of Villainy_, where _Vice_
    Presides, and _Virtue_ bears no Price,
    Where _Fraud_, _Hypocrisy_, and _Lies_
    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_,
   _An Agent in Iniquity_.
    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,
    His Sermons are a _Map of Hell_,
    An _Ollio_ made of _Conflagration_,
    Of _Gulphs of Brimstone_, and _Damnation_,
   _Eternal Torments_, _Furnace_, _Worm_,
   _Hell-Fire_, a _Whirlwind_, and a _Storm_,
    With _Mammon_, _Satan_, and _Perdition_,
    And _Beelzebub_ to help the Dish on;
   _Belial_ and _Lucifer_, and all
    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,
    Than _Powell_, as a _Fire-Eater_.

    Virgins he will seduce astray,
    Only to shew the shortest Way
    To _Heaven_, and because it lies
    Above the _Zodiac_ in the Skies,
    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,
    Teaching the Liturgy of _Hell_.
    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_;
   _Plaintiff_, _Defendant_, and _my Lord_,
    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_ now is all the _Cant_,
   _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
    While _Midwifry_ is out of Date;
    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,
    Whether it has a Plumb or no;
    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,
    The _Mashing_ for the _Preaching Tub_
    Resigns, _those Waters_ to explore,
    Which if You drink, you _thirst no more_;
    The _Gard'ner_, weary of his Trade,
    Tir'd of the Mattock, and the Spade,
    Chang'd to _Apollos_ in a Trice,
   _Waters_ the _Plants of Paradise_;
    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_.
   _B--rr--s_ and _W-r--r_ set up Shop,
    To sell _Religion_'s _Pill and Drop_,
    They teach their Patients how to fly
    On _Voice_ and _Action_ to the Sky.
    One of the _Magi of the East_,
    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.
   _H----_, cloy'd with _carnal_ Bliss,
    Longing to taste how _Spirits_ kiss,
    Bids _Chapels_ for her _Saints_ arise,
    Which are but _Bagnios_ in Disguise;
    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,
    A _Saint_ conversing with his _Whore_.
    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_,
    Make his _Infernalship_ a _Clerk_;
    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,
    Drawn in the _Countenance of Men_,
    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_,
    As Country Girls of Country Fairs;
    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
    Such Tales as get Thee Fame in _Hell_?
    But Children know not whence they spring,
    Whether by Beggar got, or King;
    Yet I by _certain Marks_ can know,
    Whether Thou art _my Child_, or no.
    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
    The two _Initials_ _F_ and _P_,
    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_;
    Was mark'd with _Whoredom_, _Lust_, and _Letchery_,
   _Malice_, _Hypocrisy_, and _Treachery_,
    With _Envy_, _Lying_, and _Betraying_,
    With _Fasting_, _Wenching_, _Fiddling_, _Praying_,
    And all the _Catalogue of Sin_
    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,
    And be an Enemy to _God_;
    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,
    But _Charity in Masquerade_;
    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;
    If _Liars_, _Flatt'rers_, _Pandars_, _Pimps_,
    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
    In _Pandæmonium_, for thy Pain.
    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
   _Libidinoso_ and his Gold,
    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,
    Before he went, he kiss'd his Whore)
    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 _Pair of Adamantine Lungs_,
    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
   _Modern Impossibilities_)
    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_
    In _Love_, and sue for a _Divorce_;
    Or to abridge, and enter down
    The Names of all the _Fools in Town_;
    Or number those who _live by Ink_,
    And _write_, altho' they cannot _think_;
   _Critics_, who judge, but cannot read,
    And _praise_, or _censure_--as they're _fee'd_;
    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
   _Poets' Impossibilities_
    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_;
    And use the Head, the Heart, the Hand,
    To spread _its Doctrines_ thro' the Land.
   _Arithmetic herself_ were dumb,
    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_,
    Trample on _Reason_, _Truth_, and _Thee_,
    And, while their hot Career they run,
    Tread on the _Gospel_ of thy Son!
    Who, feigning to adore, make Thee
    A _Tyrant-God_ of Cruelty!
    As if thy _right Hand_ did contain
    Only an Universe of Pain,
   _Hell_ and _Damnation_ in thy _Left_,
    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_.

                 F I N I S.



 WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK
 MEMORIAL LIBRARY
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES


 THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY
 PUBLICATIONS IN PRINT



 THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY
 PUBLICATIONS IN PRINT


 1948-1949

  16. Henry Nevil Payne, _The Fatal Jealousie_ (1673).

  17. Nicholas Rowe, _Some Account of the Life of Mr. William
      Shakespear_ (1709).

  18. Anonymous, "Of Genius," in _The Occasional Paper_, Vol. III,
      No. 10 (1719), and Aaron Hill, Preface to _The Creation_
      (1720).


 1949-1950

  19. Susanna Centlivre, _The Busie Body_ (1709).

  20. Lewis Theobald, _Preface to the Works of Shakespeare_ (1734).

  22. Samuel Johnson, _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ (1749), and two
     _Rambler_ papers (1750).

  23. John Dryden, _His Majesties Declaration Defended_ (1681).


 1951-1952

  26. Charles Macklin, _The Man of the World_ (1792).

  31. Thomas Gray, _An Elegy Wrote in a Country Churchyard_ (1751),
      and _The Eton College Manuscript_.


 1952-1953

  41. Bernard Mandeville, _A Letter to Dion_ (1732).


 1962-1963

  98. Selected Hymns Taken Out of Mr. Herbert's _Temple_ (1697).


 1964-1965

 109. Sir William Temple, _An Essay Upon the Original and Nature
      of Government_ (1680).

 110. John Tutchin, _Selected Poems_ (1685-1700).

 111. Anonymous, _Political Justice_ (1736).

 112. Robert Dodsley, _An Essay on Fable_ (1764).

 113. T. R., _An Essay Concerning Critical and Curious Learning_
      (1698).

 114. _Two Poems Against Pope_: Leonard Welsted, _One Epistle to
      Mr. A. Pope_ (1730), and Anonymous, _The Blatant Beast_
      (1742).


 1965-1966

 115. Daniel Defoe and others, _Accounts of the Apparition of Mrs.
      Veal_.

 116. Charles Macklin, _The Covent Garden Theatre_ (1752).

 117. Sir Roger L'Estrange, _Citt and Bumpkin_ (1680).

 118. Henry More, _Enthusiasmus Triumphatus_ (1662).

 119. Thomas Traherne, _Meditations on the Six Days of the Creation_
      (1717).

 120. Bernard Mandeville, _Aesop Dress'd or a Collection of Fables_
      (1740).


 1966-1967

 123. Edmond Malone, _Cursory Observations on the Poems Attributed
      to Mr. Thomas Rowley_ (1782).

 124. Anonymous, _The Female Wits_ (1704).

 125. Anonymous, _The Scribleriad_ (1742). Lord Hervey, _The Difference
      Between Verbal and Practical Virtue_ (1742).


 1967-1968

 129. Lawrence Echard, Prefaces to _Terence's Comedies_ (1694)
      and _Plautus's Comedies_ (1694).

 130. Henry More, _Democritus Platonissans_ (1646).

 132. Walter Harte, _An Essay on Satire, Particularly on the Dunciad_
      (1730).


 1968-1969

 133. John Courtenay, _A Poetical Review of the Literary and Moral
      Character of the Late Samuel Johnson_ (1786).

 134. John Downes, _Roscius Anglicanus_ (1708).

 135. Sir John Hill, _Hypochondriasis, a Practical Treatise_ (1766).

 136. Thomas Sheridan, _Discourse ... Being Introductory to His
      Course of Lectures on Elocution and the English Language_ (1759).

 137. Arthur Murphy, _The Englishman From Paris_ (1736).


 1969-1970

 138. [Catherine Trotter], _Olinda's Adventures_ (1718).

 139. John Ogilvie, _An Essay on the Lyric Poetry of the Ancients_ (1762).

 140. _A Learned Dissertation on Dumpling_ (1726) and _Pudding
      Burnt to Pot or a Compleat Key to the Dissertation on
      Dumpling_ (1727).

 141. Selections from Sir Roger L'Estrange's _Observator_ (1681-1687).

 142. Anthony Collins, _A Discourse Concerning Ridicule and Irony
      in Writing_ (1729).

 143. _A Letter From A Clergyman to His Friend, With An Account
      of the Travels of Captain Lemuel Gulliver_ (1726).

 144. _The Art of Architecture, A Poem. In Imitation of Horace's
      Art of Poetry_ (1742).


 1970-1971

 145-146. Thomas Shelton, _A Tutor to Tachygraphy, or Short-writing_
      (1642) and _Tachygraphy_ (1647).

 147-148. _Deformities of Dr. Samuel Johnson_ (1782).

 149. _Poeta de Tristibus: or, the Poet's Complaint_ (1682).

 150. Gerard Langbaine, _Momus Triumphans: or, the Plagiaries
      of the English Stage_ (1687).


Publications of the first fifteen years of the Society (numbers 1-90) are
available in paperbound units of six issues at $16.00 per unit, from the
Kraus Reprint Company, 16 East 46th Street, New York, N.Y. 10017.

Publications in print are available at the regular membership rate of
$5.00 for individuals and $8.00 for institutions per year. Prices of
single issues may be obtained upon request. Subsequent publications may
be checked in the annual prospectus.



 The Augustan Reprint Society

 WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK
 MEMORIAL LIBRARY

 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES
 2520 Cimarron Street (at West Adams), Los Angeles, California 90018


 _Make check or money order payable to_
 THE REGENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA





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