A rector, more rude than the rabble,
Compos’d an incendiary song,
More base than a Billingsgate bauble,
And like his stale strumpet stinks strong.
That seat on a summit for cent’ries
Assigned to sages and saints,
Was kept by those scripture comment’ries
From tete-a-tete, tarnish, and taints.
But time tells a tragical story,
Of truths well attested by some;