Now, quoth the cobbler, with your leave,
I’ll prove it to his face,
All this is mere suggestion,
And foreign to the case.
And since he calls so many names
And talks so very loud,
I will be bound to make it plain
’Twas he that raised the crowd.
Nay, further, I will make ’t appear
He and the priests have done
More mischief than the cobblers far
All over Christendom.
All Europe groans beneath their yoke,
And poor Great Britain owes
To them her present miseries,
And dread of future woes.
The priests of all religions are
And will be still the same,
And all, tho’ in a different way,
Are playing the same game.
At this the gentleman stood up,—
Cobbler, you run too fast;
By thus condemning all the tribe
You go beyond your last.
Much mischief has by priests been done,
And more is doing still;
But then to censure all alike
Must be exceeding ill.
Too many, I must needs confess,
Are mightily to blame,
Who by their wicked practices
Disgrace the very name.
But, cobbler, still the major part
The minor should conclude;
To argue at another rate’s
Impertinent and rude.
By this time all the neighbours round
Were flock’d about the door,
And some were on the vicar’s side,
But on the cobbler’s more.