From the drift of your latter reflection,
I fear you maintain some connection
With the crocodile crew that believe in Election.
By my troth, I abhor the whole troop;
With those heroes I never could cope:
I should chuckle to see them all swing in a rope.
JOHN.
Ah, could we but set the land free
From those bawlers about the Decree,
Who’re such torments to you, to my brother, and me!
As for Whitefield, I know it right well,
He has sent down his thousands to hell;
And, for aught that I know, he’s gone with ’em to dwell.
NICK.
I grant, my friend John, for ’tis true,
That he was not so perfect as YOU:
Yet (confound him) I lost him, for all I could do.
JOHN.
Take comfort! he’s not gone to glory;
Or, at most, not above the first story.
For none but the perfect escape purgatory.