... His hungry congregation waits in vain,
Wishing he’d come the Gospel to explain,
Begin, or rather end, his dull tho’ noisy strain.
At last he comes, deep-crimson’d o’er his face,
A certain token of unlettered grace;
He mounts, the pulpit crackles with his weight,
His awful eyebrows the most distant threat;
Against his brethren he exclaims aloud
That they are too luxurious in their food,
In taverns more than churches take delight,