81 Here villany, with honour join'd,

A motley commerce make:

The duke and scoundrel, here combin'd,
One common spoil partake.

82 The gambler's triumph here is great,
But greater still the

woe;

Which falls upon the dupes too late

To ward a final blow.

83 Who pities them, for they too came
Like Atheists to the play,

Bunglers, who scarcely knew the game,
Yet vainly hop'd for prey?

84 And now abandon'd to distress,
Distraction and despair,

Seek by the pistol late redress
From wants they cannot bear?
85 The winner and the loser too
Deserve one common end;
Narcotic hemp to all the crew
Should prove an equal friend.

86 To these each obvious bough is free,
If they can buy a string;
But those, adown the legal tree,
Have merited a swing.

87 As nature is by fashion chang'd,
So hath religion been
By this usurper more derang'd
In person, and in mien.

88 Too much it is, that fashion reigns
O'er our external frame;

But when within we feel his chains,
Religion's but a name.

89 The present fashion cools our hearts
To God, and in our minds

To all our principles imparts

The fickleness of winds;

90 At virtue now impels the dart
Of wit's satyric sneer;

Now at the weak unguarded heart
The meretricious leer.

91 The milliners of dress and wit
Sufficient store supply

Each foible, and each mode to hit,
Of either heart or eye.

92 Religion is that standard dress,
Which on the wearer ought
Its beauteous figure to impress,
In every deed and thought.

93 Some suit this garment to their shape,
Some suit themselves to it;

These last from thence much honour reap,
And o'er high Agag sit.

94 The former, as too often seen,

This beauteous robe distort

To their foul figure, which hath been
Of botching fiends the sport.

95 Hence of this garb a wardrobe made
By fashion, now supplies
Our hypocritic masquerade
With all sorts of disguise.

96 Hence every heresy and vice,
Indulg'd by Christian folk,
Can at a very moderate price
Assume a mask and cloak.

97 Some little whitish patch retain'd,
Gives credit to the rest,

Though deep with black or scarlet stain'd,
And sully'd at the best.

98 Look these, at all, like wedding-clothes, Thou tailor of deceit ?

Or on the lamb can these impose,
Should masquers on him wait?

99 From this and that opinion's blow,
And waft us where they list;

From something or from nothing grow,
And bourgeon in a mist.

100 Absurd, nay wicked, sure he is,

101 Fashion with faith hath interfer'd,
And now presumes to guide,
As rather more to be rever'd,
And fitter to decide.

102 If now and then a truth prevails
"Tis but for fashion's sake,
And on our minds but poorly steals,
As begging leave to take.

103 For thy most pure and holy word,
Establish'd in these lands,

What small respect is shewn, O Lord,
What cool professor stands?

104 The pastor skulks behind a creed,
Which he himself betrays;

Faith dies, and truth begins to bleed
By his ambiguous phrase.

145 These prophets false, in sheep's array,
With honey'd words and smiles,
Come forth to point a devious way,
Beset with snares and wiles.

106 For sheep unwary spread the mesh,
Of art and murder full;

First, like a wolf, devour the flesh,
Then clothe them with the wool.

107 The Lord that bought them they deny;
And trample on his blood;
His saving merits they decry,
And vaunt their own as good.

108 Faith by the martyr's blood is bought;
He speaks the truth, and dies:

Is honesty by falsehood taught?
Is truth convey'd in lies?

109 They're heard with pleasure by a crowd, Who for deception wish;

The haughty palate of the proud
Disdains a plainer dish.

110 Errors, that give a latitude
To actions vile and base,

That stifle every sense of good,

We welcome and embrace.

111 At nothing these new teachers strain; All articles and creeds

Go down the gullet wide of gain,
As worldly wisdom speeds.

112 Unguided, or misguided, hence
The flock, of light bereft,
And-keenly feeling its expense,

In wilderness is left.

113 More from our income than our creed (Creeds now are nothing thought) The layman wishes to be freed, And better fed than taught.

114 If we, religious Pilates, fail

To shun the rocks and shelves,
Don't, laymen, therefore at us rail,
Lest you rail at yourselves.

115 We all were laymen once, 'tis plain,
All priests by you were made.

Your stuff and choice you must arraign
When you our faults implaid.

116 Our king, our fathers, laymen all,
(Whom needs we must obey)
For this employment gave the call
To us when purely lay.

117 Your worthless brood into the church You thrust for impious bread;

These leave her doctrines in the lurch,
And dire opinions spread.

118 Thus I too on the sacred place
Unworthily intrude,

As destitute, I fear, of grace,
As neither wise, nor good.

119 Why rail you then? or why indeed
Should you, so very wise,

So poorly form your counter-creed
On our misdeeds or lies?

120 Why thus so stupidly inhale,
Of your own fallacies,

The putrid and infectious gale,

As a salubrious breeze?

121 Yet some good pastors still remain
Of character sublime,

Who resolutely truth maintain,
And brave the scythe of time.

122 Religious truth no more desires,
Than silence in the rest,

No farther hopes for, nor requires,
Than negligence, at best.

123 You see from hence corruption springs, And purjury assumes

The civil power of states and kings,
And flaunts it in their plumes.

124 In conversation, commerce, law,
You see, these bear the rule,
And grasp with a rapacious paw,
The weak, the poor, the fool.

125 Nay, not content to see alone,
The cucumbers you praise,

Which in this hot-bed of your own,
You take good care to raise.

126 Resume that wealth, ye worldly crew,
Which you pretend you gave;

Take back your haughty offspring too,
Who preach, but to deceive.

127 Proud priest, did Christ to poverty,
And to contempt descend,

That you in pride and luxury

Your ill-got wealth may spend?

128 How soon shall you, in flannel gown,*
Experience a reverse,

And for a splendid coach, go down
In an old hackney hearse!

129 Nay, yet far worse, that haughty head
To lower depths shall sink,

And, midst th' offscourings of the dead,
Thy treach'rous soul shall stink.

130 This church and land, O Lord, I love,
And as my mothers prize;
To me that opens joys above,
This life and food supplies.

* The Irish all bury in Flannel.