But above all, (or let the wretch refrain,
Nor touch the page he cannot but profane)
Free from the domineering pow'r of lust;

A lewd interpreter is never just.

How shall I speak thee, or thy pow'r address, Thou god of our idolatry, the Press?

By thee religion, liberty, and laws,

Exert their influence, and advance their cause;
By thee worse plagues than Pharaoh's land befel,
Diffus'd, make Earth the vestibule of Hell;
Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wise
Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies;
Like Eden's dread probationary tree,
Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.

No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest,
Till half mankind were like himself possess'd.
Philosophers, who darken and put out

Eternal truth by everlasting doubt;

Church quacks, with passions under no command, Who fill the world with doctrines contraband, Discov'rers of they know not what, confin'd Within no bounds-the blind that lead the blind; To streams of popular opinion drawn,

Deposit in those shallows all their

spawn.

The wriggling fry soon fill the creeks around, Pois'ning the waters where their swarms abound. Scorn'd by the nobler tenants of the flood, Minnows and gudgeons gorge th' unwholesome food.

The propagated myriads spread so fast,

Ev'n Lewenhoeck himself would stand aghast,
Employ'd to calculate th' enormous sum,
And own his crab-computing pow'rs o'ercome.
Is this hyperbole? The world well known,
Your sober thoughts will hardly find it one.

Fresh confidence the speculatist takes

From ev'ry hair-brain'd proselyte he makes;
And therefore prints. Himself but half deceiv'd,
Till others have the soothing tale believ❜d.
Hence comment after comment spun as fine
As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line.
Hence the same word, that bids our lusts obey,
Is misappled to sanctify their sway.

If stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend,
Hebrew or Syriac shall be forc'd to bend:
If languages and copies all cry, No-
Somebody prov'd it centuries ago.

Like trout pursued, the critic in despair

Darts to the mud, and finds his safety there:
Woman, whom custom has forbid to fly

The scholar's pitch, (the scholar best knows why)
With all the simple and unletter'd poor,

Admire his learning, and almost adore.
Whoever errs, the priest can ne'er be wrong,
With such fine words familiar to his tongue.
Ye ladies! (for indiff'rent in your cause,
I should deserve to forfeit all applause)
Whatever shocks or gives the least offence
To virtue, delicacy, truth, or sense,
(Try the criterion, 'tis a faithful guide)
Nor has, nor can have, Scripture on it's side.
None but an author knows an author's cares,
Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears.
Committed once into the public arms,

The baby seems to smile with added charms.
Like something precious ventur'd far from shore,
"Tis valued for the danger's sake the more.
He views it with complacency supreme,
Solicits kind attention to his dream;

And daily more enamour'd of the cheat,

Kneels, and asks Heav'n to bless the dear deceit.

No.

But his own engagement binds him fast; Or, if it does not, brands him to the last, What atheists call him-a designing knave, A mere church juggler, hypocrite and slave. Oh, laugh or mourn with me the rueful jest, A cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest! He from Italian songsters takes his cue: Set Paul to music, he shall quote him too. He takes the field, the master of the pack Cries-Well done saint! and claps him on the back.

Is this the path of sanctity? Is this

To stand a waymark in the road to bliss?
Himself a wand'rer from the narrow way,
His silly sheep, what wonder if they stray?
Go, cast your orders at your Bishop's feet,
Send your dishonour'd gown to Monmouth-street
The sacred function in your hands is made-
Sad sacrilege! no function, but a trade!

Occiduus is a pastor of renown;

When he has pray'd and preach'd the sabbath down, With wire and catgut he concludes the day, Quav'ring and semiquav'ring care away.

The full concerto swells upon your ear;

All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear
The Babylonian tyrant with a nod,

Had summon'd them to serve his golden God.
So well that thought th' employment seems to suit,
Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer and flute.
O fie! 'tis evangelical and pure:

Observe each face, how sober and demure!
Ecstasy sets her stamp on ev'ry mien;

Chins fall'n, and not an eyeball to be seen.
Still I insist, though music heretofore

Has charm' me much, (not ev'n Occiduus more)
Love, joy, and peace make harmony more meet
For sabbath ev❜nings, and perhaps as sweet.
Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry flock
Resort to this example as a rock;
There stand, and justify the foul abuse
Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse;
If apostolic gravity be free

To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards
As inoffensive, what offence in cards?
Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay,
Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play.