Cries PRETTYMAN, “Consider, Sir,
My sacred cloth, and character.”
The indignant Minister replied,
“This ne’er had been, had ORDE ne’er lyed.”
The patient Priest at last relented;
And all his Master wish’d, invented;
Then added, with a saint-like whine,
“But the next Mitre must be mine!”
XIV.
For tongue or for eye,
Who with PRETTY can vie?
Sure such organs must save him much trouble;
For of labour not loth,
Tis the way with them both,
Their functions to execute——double!
XV.
The days of miracle, ’twas thought, were past;
(Strange from what cause so wild an error sprung)
But now convinc’d, the world allows at last,
PRETTY’s still favour’d with a—cloven tongue!
XVI.
Faith in the Church, all grave Divines contend,
Is the chief hold whence future hopes depend.
How hard then BRITAIN’s lot!—for who hath faith
To credit half what Doctor PRETTY saith?
XVII.
(By SIR CECIL WRAY.)
Oh! if I had thought that PRETTY could lye,
I’d a hired him, I would, for my Scrutiny!
My poor Scrutiny!—My dear Scrutiny!
My heart it down sinks—I wish I could die!