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.