No importunities or threats
My fixt resolves shall rest;
Come here, Sir Samuel, where’s his health
That loves old England best.
I pity those unhappy fools
Who, ere they were aware,
Designing and ambitious men
Have drawn into a snare.
But, vicar, to come to the case,—
Amidst a senseless crowd,
What urged you to such violence,
And made you talk so loud?
Passion I’m sure does ill become
Your character and cloath,
And, tho’ the cause be ne’er so just,
Brings scandal upon both.
Vicar, I speak it with regret,
An inadvertent priest
Renders himself ridiculous,
And every body’s jest.
The vicar to be thus rebuked
A little time stood mute;
But having gulp’d his passion down,
Replies,—That cobbling brute
Has treated me with such contempt,
Such vile expressions used,
That I no longer could forbear
To hear myself abused.
The rascal had the insolence
To give himself the lie,
And to aver h’ had done more good
And saved more soals than I.
Nay, further, Sir, this miscreant
To tell me was so bold,
Our trades were very near of kin,
But his was the more old.
Now, Sir, I will to you appeal
On such a provocation,
If there was not sufficient cause
To use a little passion?