The Methodist Part 3

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 _Daemoniac 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 _h.e.l.l_.

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, _a.s.surance_ 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 _Wh.o.r.e_.

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' m.u.f.fled 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."

Pa.s.s 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_ pa.s.sing 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 _h.e.l.l-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 _h.e.l.l_?

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 _Wh.o.r.edom_, _l.u.s.t_, 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 _G.o.d_; Apply your Fortune to oppress, And harra.s.s _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 _Pandaemonium_, 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 pa.s.sage 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 Wh.o.r.e) 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 _h.e.l.l_'s Minister at large.

A _Pair of Adamantine Lungs_, A _Throat of Bra.s.s_, _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_ a.s.say 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 _h.e.l.l'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 _h.e.l.l_ entwine, Bestow another drop of Ink, To map out an _infernal Sink_--

Thou G.o.d 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-G.o.d_ of Cruelty!

As if thy _right Hand_ did contain Only an Universe of Pain, _h.e.l.l_ and _d.a.m.nation_ 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 _Grat.i.tude_, 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d_ 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

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