Thy Muse, by Virgil’s Harpies taught to write,
Scatters her Ordure in her screaming Flight;
Sacred Religion and her Priests defames,
And against Monarchs saucily exclames.
[e] The Fathers, of our Church the surest Guides,
As a poor Pack of Punsters she derides.
But chief O Cam! and Isis! dread her Frown,
[f] Chain’d to the Footstool of the Goddess’ Throne.
No Order, no Degree escapes her Rage,
And dull, and dull, and dull swells ev’ry Page.