The Methodist

by Evan Lloyd

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 Cœlia 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.