The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Methodist

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe MethodistThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Methodista poemAuthor: Evan LloydAuthor of introduction, etc.: Raymond BentmanRelease date: January 11, 2009 [eBook #27776]Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Anne Storer, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE METHODIST ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Methodista poemAuthor: Evan LloydAuthor of introduction, etc.: Raymond BentmanRelease date: January 11, 2009 [eBook #27776]Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Anne Storer, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

Title: The Methodist

a poem

Author: Evan LloydAuthor of introduction, etc.: Raymond Bentman

Author: Evan Lloyd

Author of introduction, etc.: Raymond Bentman

Release date: January 11, 2009 [eBook #27776]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Anne Storer, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE METHODIST ***

E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Anne Storer,and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net)

Transcriber’s Note: Table of Contents added:IntroductionThe Methodist

The Augustan Reprint SocietyEVAN LLOYDTHE METHODIST.A POEM.(1766)Introduction byRaymond BentmanPUBLICATION NUMBER 151-152WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARYUniversity of California, Los Angeles1972GENERAL EDITORSWilliam E. Conway, William Andrews Clark Memorial LibraryGeorge Robert Guffey, University of California, Los AngelesMaximillian E. Novak, University of California, Los AngelesDavid S. Rodes, University of California, Los AngelesADVISORY EDITORSRichard C. Boys, University of MichiganJames L. Clifford, Columbia UniversityRalph Cohen, University of VirginiaVinton A. Dearing, University of California, Los AngelesArthur Friedman, University of ChicagoLouis A. Landa, Princeton UniversityEarl Miner, University of California, Los AngelesSamuel H. Monk, University of MinnesotaEverett T. Moore, University of California, Los AngelesLawrence Clark Powell, William Andrews Clark Memorial LibraryJames Sutherland, University College, LondonH. T. Swedenberg, Jr., University of California, Los AngelesRobert Vosper, William Andrews Clark Memorial LibraryCurt A. Zimansky, State University of IowaCORRESPONDING SECRETARYEdna C. Davis, William Andrews Clark Memorial LibraryEDITORIAL ASSISTANTJean T. Shebanek, William Andrews Clark Memorial LibraryINTRODUCTIONEvan Lloyd’s works consist chiefly of four satires written in 1766 and 1767,[1]all of which are now little-known. What little notice he receives today results from his friendship with John Wilkes and David Garrick and from one satire,The Methodist, which is usually included in surveys of anti-Methodist literature.[2]For the most part, his obscurity is deserved. InThe Methodist, however, he participates in a short-lived revolt against the tyranny of Augustan satire and shows considerable evidence of a talent that might have created a new style for formal verse satire.The seventeen-sixties were a difficult period for satire. The struggle between Crown and Parliament, the new industrial and agricultural methods, the workers’ demands for higher pay, the new rural and urban poor, the growth of the Empire, the deteriorating relations with the American colonies, the increasing influence of the ideas of the Enlightenment, the popularity of democratic ideas, the Wilkes controversy, the growth of Methodism, the growth of the novel, the interest in the gothic and the picturesque and in chinoiserie, sentimentality, enthusiasm—all these activities made England a highly volatile country. Some changes were truly dynamic, others just fads. But to someone living in the period, who dared to look around him, the complexity of the present and the uncertainty of the future must have seemed enormous.To a satirist, such complexity makes art difficult. Satire usually deals with every-day realities, to which it applies simple moral ideals. The Augustan satiric alternative—returning to older beliefs in religion, government, philosophy, art—and the stylistic expression of such beliefs—formal verse satire and epistle, mock-poem, heroic or Hudibrastic couplet, diction of polite conversation, ironic metaphysical conceits, fantastic fictional situations—become irrelevant to the satirist writing when the past seems lost. In his later works, Pope took Augustan satire about as far as it could go.The Epilogue to the Satiresbecomes an epilogue to all Augustan satire and the conclusion ofThe New Dunciaddeclares the death of its own tradition. There is a sense now that England and the world have reached the point of no return. The satirist of the seventeen-sixties who repeats the ideas and styles of Butler, Dryden, Swift, Gay, and Pope seems not only imitative but out-of-touch with the world around him.But such difficulties can provide the impetus for new forms and for original styles. And in the seventeen-sixties the writers of formal satire show signs of responding to the challenge. Christopher Anstey, Charles Churchill, Robert Lloyd, and Evan Lloyd seem, during this decade, to be developing their considerable facilities with satiric technique toward the creation of new styles. Anstey’sNew Bath Guidehas a combination of epistolary fiction, realism, use of naive observers, changing points of view, sweeping view of the social scene, great range of subjects, rolicking verse forms, and tone of detached amusement which suggests a satirist who, while still largely derivative, had the talent to create new techniques. Churchill and Robert Lloyd are explicit in their wish to break from Augustan style. Churchill argues that it was “a sin ’gainst Pleasure, to design / A plan, to methodize each thought, each line / Highly to finish.” He claims to write “When the mad fit comes on” and praises poetry written “Wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild” (Gotham[1764], II, 167-169, 172, 212). His satire—with its deliberate, irreverant, “Byronic” run-on lines, fanciful digressions, playful indifference to formal structure, impulsively involuted syntax, long, wandering sentences—seems to move, as does Robert Lloyd’s satire (at a somewhat slower pace), toward a genuinely new style. In being chatty, fluid, iconoclastic, spontaneous-sounding, self-revealing, his satire might eventually prove capable of dealing with the problems that the Augustan satirists had predicted but did not have to deal with so directly. But both Churchill and Robert Lloyd died before they could develop their styles to the point that they had a new, timely statement to make. Anstey failed to develop beyond theNew Bath Guide, and his influence proved to be more important on the novel than on verse satire.Evan Lloyd’s first satire,The Powers of the Pen, is a clever but ordinary satire on good and bad writing. It has some historical interest as an example of the early influence of Rousseau in England, of part of the attack on Samuel Johnson for his adverse criticism of Shakespeare, of the influence of Churchill (Lloyd declared himself a disciple), and of the expression of the fashionable interest in artlessness which was influenced as much by Joseph Warton as by Rousseau. In a “quill shop” the narrator discovers magic pens which write like various authors. The one whose “Mate was purchas’d by Rousseau” can:Teach the Passions how to growWith native Vigour; unconfinedBy those vile Shackles, which the MindWears in theSchool of Art....Yet will noHeresiesadmit,To gratify thePride of Wit(p. 30).He advances these critical dicta elsewhere in this satire, condemning Johnson because he tries “Nature” by “Critic-law” (p. 21). With fashionable Rousseauistic ideas he praises:TheMuse, who never lov’d the Town,Ne’er flaunted in brocaded Gown;Pleas’d thro’ the hawthorn’d Vale to roam,Or sing her artless Strain at Home,Bred in plain Nature’s simple Rules,Far from the Foppery of Schools (p. 36).Evan Lloyd, Robert Lloyd, and Churchill, starting from somewhat different philosophic principles, all arrive at similar positions.The Curate, his second satire, is largely autobiographical. It shows, as doesThe Powers of the Pen, some clever turns of phrases, pithy expressions, and amusing images. It also contains incisive criticism of corruption in the Church, of declining respect for Christianity, and, what seems to Lloyd almost the same thing, of a collapsing class structure. The Church wardens, “uncivil and unbred! / Unlick’d, untaught, un-all-things—but unfed!” are “but sweepers of the pews, / TheScullions of the Church, they dare abuse, / And rudely treat their betters” (pp. 16-17). They show a lack of proper respect both for class-structure and Christianity:Servant to Christ!and what is that to me?I keep a servant too, as well as He (p. 17).ButThe Curatefrequently descends to a whine. The curate is morally above reproach while those above him are arrogant and those below him are disrespectful.The most serious problem withThe Curate, however, is the same as the problem with all of Lloyd’s satires exceptThe Methodist, and the same as the problem with almost all satires between Pope and Burns or Blake. The satirist seems unwilling to probe, to find out what are the political, ethical, psychological, or aesthetic forces that cause the problems which the satirist condemns, and to recommend what can be done to change these forces. If the satirist notes any pattern at all, it is one of ineffective, unmoving abstraction and generality.One explanation for this deliberate avoidance of more profound issues is not hard to find. An astonishing number of satires of this period contain a large proportion of lines devoted to describing how wonderful everything is. The widespread conviction that whatever is, in the England of the late eighteenth century, is right, may have resulted from the influence ofAn Essay on Man. Or theEssaymay have been popular because it expressed ideas already in general acceptance. But whatever the explanation is, the catch-phrases extracted from Pope’s most popular work become the touchstones of post-Augustan satire.The problem that the satirist faced in the sixties was, then, formidable. The country was in upheaval but the conventions demanded that the satirist say everything was nearly perfect. As a result, satire tended toward personal whines, likeThe Curate, toward attacking tiresomely obvious objects, like the superficial chit-chat of Lloyd’sConversation, toward trivial quarrels, like Churchill’sRosciad, toward broadly unimpeachable morals, like Johnson’sThe Vanity of Human Wishes. It is understandable that many writers, such as Joseph Warton and Christopher Smart, abandoned satire for various kinds of enthusiasm.Methodism lent itself to such satire. Methodists could be described as unfortunate aberrants from an essentially good world, typical of those bothersome fanatics and deviants at the fringe of society who keep this world from being perfect. They were also logical heirs to the satire once visited upon Dissenters but which diminished when Dissenters became more restrained in their style of worship. (The Preface to one anti-Methodist satire even takes pains to exclude “rational Dissenters” from its target.) Many Methodists were followers of Calvin. These Methodists brought out the old antagonisms against the Calvinist doctrine of Election (or the popular version of it), directed against its severity, its apparent encouragement of pride, and its antinomian implications. The mass displays of emotion at Methodist meetings would be distasteful to many people in most periods and probably were especially so in an age in which rational behavior was particularly valued. And there were those people who believed that Methodism, in spite of Wesley’s arguments to the contrary, led good members of the Church of England astray and threatened religious stability.Yet all these causes do not explain the harshness of anti-Methodist satire. No other subject during this period received such severe condemnation. Wesley and Whitefield were accused of seducing their female converts, of fleecing all their converts of money, of making trouble solely out of envy or pride. Evan Lloyd is not so harsh nor so implacably bigoted about any other subject as he is about Methodism. He was an intimate friend of John Wilkes, the least bigoted of men. Also, there are essential differences between the Dissenters of the Restoration and the Methodists of the late eighteenth century that would seem to lessen the antagonism toward the Methodists. To the satirists of the Restoration, Dissenters were reminders of civil war, regicide, the chaos that religious division could bring. Now the only threat of religious war or major civil disturbance had come from the Jacobites, and even that threat was safely in the past. It is notable that Swift, Pope, and Gay tended to satirize Dissenters within the context of larger problems. The assault on Methodists, then, is actually not a continuation of anti-Dissenter satire but something new. Hence the whole movement of anti-Methodist satire in the sixties and seventies has an untypically violent tone which cannot be explained solely in terms of satiric trends or religious attitudes. The explanation lies, I think, partly in the social, political, and economic background.The Methodist movement was perhaps the most dramatic symptom (or at least the symptom hardest to ignore) of the changes taking place in England. The Methodist open-air services were needed because new industrial areas had sprung up where there were no churches, and lay preachers were necessary because of population shifts but also because of the increase in population made possible by new agricultural and manufacturing methods. The practice of taking lay preachers from many social classes had obvious democratic implications. Wesley, in spite of his political conservatism, challenged a number of widely-held, complacent aphorisms, such as the belief that people are “poor only because they are idle.”[3]The mass emotionalism of the evangelical meetings were reminders that man was not so rational as certain popular ideas tried to make him. Wesley’s insistence (with irritatingly good evidence) that he did no more than adhere to the true doctrine of the Church of England strongly suggested that the Church of England had strayed somewhere. (It is rather interestingly paralleled by Wilkes’s insistence that he only wanted to return to the Declaration of Rights, a reminder that the government had also strayed.) And Methodism, by its very existence and popularity, posed the question of whether the Church of England, in its traditional form, was capable of dealing with problems created by social and economic changes.These social, economic, and political issues are touched upon by a number of the anti-Methodist satirists. Most of these satirists, however, are contented simply to complain about the lower class tone of the Methodist movement, to note generally, as Dryden and Swift had noted before, that Protestantism contained the seeds of mob rule. The anonymous author ofThe Saintsfears “Their frantic pray’r [is] a mereDecoyforMob” (p. 4) and the author[4]ofThe Methodist and Mimicclaims that Whitefield’s preaching sends “the Brainless Mob a gadding” (p. 15). Evan Lloyd is the one anti-Methodist satirist who explores the larger implications.Lloyd constructs his satire around the theme of general corruption, that nothing is so virtuous that it cannot be spoiled either by man’s weakness or by time. The theme is common in the period and could have become banal, except that Lloyd applies it to the corruption of the Church and its manifestations in daily life, giving it an immediate, lively reference. The Methodist practice of lay preachers, for example, Lloyd treats as an instance of the collapse of the class system:Each vulgar Trade, each sweaty BrowIs search’d....Hence ev’ry Blockhead, Knave, and Dunce,Start into Preachers all at once (p. 29).Lloyd combines the language of theology, government, and civil order to suggest a connection between recent riots, the excesses of the Earl of Bute, the Protestant belief that religious concepts are easily understood by all social classes, democracy, the emotional displays of Methodism, and lay preachers:Hence Ignorance of ev’ry size,Of ev’ry shape Wit can devise,Altho’ so dull it hardly knows, ...When it is Day, or when ’tis Night,Shall yet pretend to keep the KeyOfGod’s dark Secrets, and displayHishidden Mysteries, as freeAs ifGod’s privy CouncilHe,Shall to his Presence rush, and dareTo raise apious Riotthere (pp. 29-30).Lloyd presents an essentially disorderly world in which chaos spreads almost inevitably, in which riots, corrupt ministers, arrogant fools, disrespectful lower classes, giddy middle classes, and lascivious upper classes are barely kept in check by a system of social class, government, and church. Now, with the checks withdrawn, lawyers and physicians spread their own disorder even further as they:Quit their beloved wranglingHall,More loudly in aChurchto bawl: ...And full as fervent, on their Knees,ForHeav’nthey pray, as once forFees; ...ThePhysic-Tribetheir Art resign,And lose theQuackin theDivine; ...Of aNew-birththey prate, and prateWhileMidwifryis out of Date (pp. 30-31).He combines the language of tradesmen with the language of mythology and theology to suggest, rather wittily and effectively, that disorder can be commonplace and cosmic simultaneously:TheBricklay’rthrows hisTrowelby,And nowbuilds Mansions in the Sky; ...TheWatermanforgets hisWherry,And opens acelestial Ferry; ...TheFishermenno longer setForFishthe Meshes of their Net,But catch, likePeter,Men of Sin,Forcatchingis totake them in(pp. 32-34).This spreading confusion is, however, not just a passing social problem but one that results from many breasts being “tainted” and many hearts “infected” (p. 34). The corruption is almost universal and results in Wesley (as he actually did) selling “Powders, Draughts, and Pills.” Madan “the springs of Healthunlocks,/ And by his Preaching cures theP[ox],” (he was Chaplain of Lock Hospital) and Romaine:Pulls you byGravity up-Hill, ...By yourbad DeedsyourFaithyou shew,’Tis butbelieve, andup You go(p. 36).Lloyd treats the confusion between sexual desire and religious fervor as another aspect of general human depravity, extending the satire beyond the crude accusation of hypocrisy or cynicism. He argues that the confusion is a part of the human condition, allowed to go out of control by a religion that puts passion before reason. The Countess of Huntingdon, “cloy’d withcarnalBliss,” longs “to taste howSpiritskiss.” In his all-inclusive catalogue of “Knaves/ That crawl onEarth” Lloyd includes “Prudesthat crowd toPews,/ While theirThoughtsramble to theStews” (p. 48).What makes Lloyd interesting, in spite of his many derivative ideas and techniques, is inadvertently pointed out by theCritical Review, which complains that “the author outmethodizes even Methodism itself.”[5]That the brutal tone ofThe Methodistwent beyond the license usually permitted the satirists was recognized by Lloyd himself. At the conclusion of the satire he asks God to halt the Methodist movement by getting to its source:Quench the hot flame, O God, that BurnsAndPietytoPhrenzyturns!And then, after a few lines, he applies the same terms to himself:But soft——myMuse! thy Breath recall——Turn notReligion’s Milk to Gall!Let not thyZealwithin thee nurseAholy Rage! orpious Curse!Far other is theheav’nly Plan,Which theRedeemergave to Man (pp. 52-53).The satirist, as Robert C. Elliott points out, has always, in art, satirized himself.[6]But there is here as throughout this satire, some attempt to develop a style which will express the belief that the world will always be disorderly and that the disorder stems from man’s “Zeal within.” This condition of the world can be expressed satirically by a personal, informal satire which recognizes and dramatizes just how universal the corruption is and how commonplace its manifestations have become.The informal, disorderly syntax, the colloquial diction, the chatty tone, the run-on lines, the conscious roughness of meter and rhyme, may have derived from Churchill, but they become here more relevant than in any of Churchill’s satires. They combine with the intemperate tone and the satirist’s concluding confession, his self-identification with the object of satire, to create a sense of an unheroic satirist, one who does not represent a highly commendable satiric alternative. Satire must now turn its vision from the heroic, the apocalyptic, the broadly philosophical, even from the depraved, and become exceedingly ordinary. It must recognize that there is little hope in going back to lofty Augustan ideals. For such subjects, it uses the impulsive tone of an over-emotional satirist who is as flawed as the subject he satirizes and still represents the best of a disordered world.Lloyd had attempted an autobiographical satire inThe Curate. He failed to create an important satire for a number of reasons, one of which was that he tried to present himself as a high ideal, a belief that he apparently held so weakly that the satire became merely petulant. Lloyd corrected this error inThe Methodistand now seems, however briefly, to have opened the way to a truly prophetic style of satire.AfterThe MethodistLloyd wroteConversation, a satire that not only failed to fulfill the promise ofThe Methodistbut is more conservative in theme and style than any of his earlier satires.After that work he produced little. He published an expanded version ofThe Power of the Penand a dull ode printed inThe Annual Register. When William Kenrick, inLove in the Suds, implied that Garrick was Isaac Bickerstaff’s lover, Lloyd defended Garrick inEpistle to David Garrick. Kenrick replied withA Whipping for the Welch Parson, an ironic Dunciad-Variorum-type editing of Lloyd’sEpistle, in which he got much the better of Lloyd. Lloyd was no match for Kenrick at this sort of thing. Except for these uninteresting productions and his convivial friendship with Wilkes and Garrick, we hear not much more of Lloyd.We know so little about his life that we can only speculate why he failed to follow up the promise ofThe Methodist; why, after favorable reviews from the journals[7]and the flattering friendship of famous men, he was not encouraged to continue a career that was as promising as the early career of many famous satirists. The explanation may lie solely in his personality. Perhaps the moderate success he achieved and the financial rewards it brought were enough for him.Another explanation is suggested by the conservative ideas and style ofConversation, which are more like Pope’s than are the ideas and style of any earlier satire of Lloyd’s. In this satire he explicitly repudiates his older, freer critical dicta in both theory and practice:Tho’ this beForm—yet bend toFormwe must,Foolswith itplease,without itWits disgust (p. 3).He uses mostly end-stop couplets, parallel constructions, Augustan diction and similes. Apparently, he began his rejection of his new ideas and style immediately afterThe Methodistand before his 1766-1767 outburst of satire-writing was over.Lloyd, in writingThe Methodist, seems to have come as close as any satirist before Blake and the writers ofThe Anti-Jacobinto seeing the problems England and the world were headed toward, to recognizing how genuinely volatile English society was in the middle of the century, and to creating a style which could deal with those problems satirically. It may be that he got some realization that his own long passages inThe Methodistpraising this best of all possible worlds (pp. 16-20) and his invocation to the “heav’nly Plan” at the conclusion made no sense, that they were contradicted by other passages in the same satire, that England and the world were changing with enormous rapidity, and that the satirist would have to create a new style to express the tremendous economic, political, social, and religious problems that were coming into being. It may be that getting such a faint notion he withdrew into artistic conservatism, into conviviality, and into silence.Temple University

(1766)

Introduction byRaymond Bentman

PUBLICATION NUMBER 151-152WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARYUniversity of California, Los Angeles1972

GENERAL EDITORS

William E. Conway, William Andrews Clark Memorial LibraryGeorge Robert Guffey, University of California, Los AngelesMaximillian E. Novak, University of California, Los AngelesDavid S. Rodes, University of California, Los Angeles

ADVISORY EDITORS

Richard C. Boys, University of MichiganJames L. Clifford, Columbia UniversityRalph Cohen, University of VirginiaVinton A. Dearing, University of California, Los AngelesArthur Friedman, University of ChicagoLouis A. Landa, Princeton UniversityEarl Miner, University of California, Los AngelesSamuel H. Monk, University of MinnesotaEverett T. Moore, University of California, Los AngelesLawrence Clark Powell, William Andrews Clark Memorial LibraryJames Sutherland, University College, LondonH. T. Swedenberg, Jr., University of California, Los AngelesRobert Vosper, William Andrews Clark Memorial LibraryCurt A. Zimansky, State University of Iowa

CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

Edna C. Davis, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT

Jean T. Shebanek, William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

Evan Lloyd’s works consist chiefly of four satires written in 1766 and 1767,[1]all of which are now little-known. What little notice he receives today results from his friendship with John Wilkes and David Garrick and from one satire,The Methodist, which is usually included in surveys of anti-Methodist literature.[2]For the most part, his obscurity is deserved. InThe Methodist, however, he participates in a short-lived revolt against the tyranny of Augustan satire and shows considerable evidence of a talent that might have created a new style for formal verse satire.

The seventeen-sixties were a difficult period for satire. The struggle between Crown and Parliament, the new industrial and agricultural methods, the workers’ demands for higher pay, the new rural and urban poor, the growth of the Empire, the deteriorating relations with the American colonies, the increasing influence of the ideas of the Enlightenment, the popularity of democratic ideas, the Wilkes controversy, the growth of Methodism, the growth of the novel, the interest in the gothic and the picturesque and in chinoiserie, sentimentality, enthusiasm—all these activities made England a highly volatile country. Some changes were truly dynamic, others just fads. But to someone living in the period, who dared to look around him, the complexity of the present and the uncertainty of the future must have seemed enormous.

To a satirist, such complexity makes art difficult. Satire usually deals with every-day realities, to which it applies simple moral ideals. The Augustan satiric alternative—returning to older beliefs in religion, government, philosophy, art—and the stylistic expression of such beliefs—formal verse satire and epistle, mock-poem, heroic or Hudibrastic couplet, diction of polite conversation, ironic metaphysical conceits, fantastic fictional situations—become irrelevant to the satirist writing when the past seems lost. In his later works, Pope took Augustan satire about as far as it could go.The Epilogue to the Satiresbecomes an epilogue to all Augustan satire and the conclusion ofThe New Dunciaddeclares the death of its own tradition. There is a sense now that England and the world have reached the point of no return. The satirist of the seventeen-sixties who repeats the ideas and styles of Butler, Dryden, Swift, Gay, and Pope seems not only imitative but out-of-touch with the world around him.

But such difficulties can provide the impetus for new forms and for original styles. And in the seventeen-sixties the writers of formal satire show signs of responding to the challenge. Christopher Anstey, Charles Churchill, Robert Lloyd, and Evan Lloyd seem, during this decade, to be developing their considerable facilities with satiric technique toward the creation of new styles. Anstey’sNew Bath Guidehas a combination of epistolary fiction, realism, use of naive observers, changing points of view, sweeping view of the social scene, great range of subjects, rolicking verse forms, and tone of detached amusement which suggests a satirist who, while still largely derivative, had the talent to create new techniques. Churchill and Robert Lloyd are explicit in their wish to break from Augustan style. Churchill argues that it was “a sin ’gainst Pleasure, to design / A plan, to methodize each thought, each line / Highly to finish.” He claims to write “When the mad fit comes on” and praises poetry written “Wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild” (Gotham[1764], II, 167-169, 172, 212). His satire—with its deliberate, irreverant, “Byronic” run-on lines, fanciful digressions, playful indifference to formal structure, impulsively involuted syntax, long, wandering sentences—seems to move, as does Robert Lloyd’s satire (at a somewhat slower pace), toward a genuinely new style. In being chatty, fluid, iconoclastic, spontaneous-sounding, self-revealing, his satire might eventually prove capable of dealing with the problems that the Augustan satirists had predicted but did not have to deal with so directly. But both Churchill and Robert Lloyd died before they could develop their styles to the point that they had a new, timely statement to make. Anstey failed to develop beyond theNew Bath Guide, and his influence proved to be more important on the novel than on verse satire.

Evan Lloyd’s first satire,The Powers of the Pen, is a clever but ordinary satire on good and bad writing. It has some historical interest as an example of the early influence of Rousseau in England, of part of the attack on Samuel Johnson for his adverse criticism of Shakespeare, of the influence of Churchill (Lloyd declared himself a disciple), and of the expression of the fashionable interest in artlessness which was influenced as much by Joseph Warton as by Rousseau. In a “quill shop” the narrator discovers magic pens which write like various authors. The one whose “Mate was purchas’d by Rousseau” can:

Teach the Passions how to growWith native Vigour; unconfinedBy those vile Shackles, which the MindWears in theSchool of Art....Yet will noHeresiesadmit,To gratify thePride of Wit(p. 30).

He advances these critical dicta elsewhere in this satire, condemning Johnson because he tries “Nature” by “Critic-law” (p. 21). With fashionable Rousseauistic ideas he praises:

TheMuse, who never lov’d the Town,Ne’er flaunted in brocaded Gown;Pleas’d thro’ the hawthorn’d Vale to roam,Or sing her artless Strain at Home,Bred in plain Nature’s simple Rules,Far from the Foppery of Schools (p. 36).

Evan Lloyd, Robert Lloyd, and Churchill, starting from somewhat different philosophic principles, all arrive at similar positions.

The Curate, his second satire, is largely autobiographical. It shows, as doesThe Powers of the Pen, some clever turns of phrases, pithy expressions, and amusing images. It also contains incisive criticism of corruption in the Church, of declining respect for Christianity, and, what seems to Lloyd almost the same thing, of a collapsing class structure. The Church wardens, “uncivil and unbred! / Unlick’d, untaught, un-all-things—but unfed!” are “but sweepers of the pews, / TheScullions of the Church, they dare abuse, / And rudely treat their betters” (pp. 16-17). They show a lack of proper respect both for class-structure and Christianity:

Servant to Christ!and what is that to me?I keep a servant too, as well as He (p. 17).

ButThe Curatefrequently descends to a whine. The curate is morally above reproach while those above him are arrogant and those below him are disrespectful.

The most serious problem withThe Curate, however, is the same as the problem with all of Lloyd’s satires exceptThe Methodist, and the same as the problem with almost all satires between Pope and Burns or Blake. The satirist seems unwilling to probe, to find out what are the political, ethical, psychological, or aesthetic forces that cause the problems which the satirist condemns, and to recommend what can be done to change these forces. If the satirist notes any pattern at all, it is one of ineffective, unmoving abstraction and generality.

One explanation for this deliberate avoidance of more profound issues is not hard to find. An astonishing number of satires of this period contain a large proportion of lines devoted to describing how wonderful everything is. The widespread conviction that whatever is, in the England of the late eighteenth century, is right, may have resulted from the influence ofAn Essay on Man. Or theEssaymay have been popular because it expressed ideas already in general acceptance. But whatever the explanation is, the catch-phrases extracted from Pope’s most popular work become the touchstones of post-Augustan satire.

The problem that the satirist faced in the sixties was, then, formidable. The country was in upheaval but the conventions demanded that the satirist say everything was nearly perfect. As a result, satire tended toward personal whines, likeThe Curate, toward attacking tiresomely obvious objects, like the superficial chit-chat of Lloyd’sConversation, toward trivial quarrels, like Churchill’sRosciad, toward broadly unimpeachable morals, like Johnson’sThe Vanity of Human Wishes. It is understandable that many writers, such as Joseph Warton and Christopher Smart, abandoned satire for various kinds of enthusiasm.

Methodism lent itself to such satire. Methodists could be described as unfortunate aberrants from an essentially good world, typical of those bothersome fanatics and deviants at the fringe of society who keep this world from being perfect. They were also logical heirs to the satire once visited upon Dissenters but which diminished when Dissenters became more restrained in their style of worship. (The Preface to one anti-Methodist satire even takes pains to exclude “rational Dissenters” from its target.) Many Methodists were followers of Calvin. These Methodists brought out the old antagonisms against the Calvinist doctrine of Election (or the popular version of it), directed against its severity, its apparent encouragement of pride, and its antinomian implications. The mass displays of emotion at Methodist meetings would be distasteful to many people in most periods and probably were especially so in an age in which rational behavior was particularly valued. And there were those people who believed that Methodism, in spite of Wesley’s arguments to the contrary, led good members of the Church of England astray and threatened religious stability.

Yet all these causes do not explain the harshness of anti-Methodist satire. No other subject during this period received such severe condemnation. Wesley and Whitefield were accused of seducing their female converts, of fleecing all their converts of money, of making trouble solely out of envy or pride. Evan Lloyd is not so harsh nor so implacably bigoted about any other subject as he is about Methodism. He was an intimate friend of John Wilkes, the least bigoted of men. Also, there are essential differences between the Dissenters of the Restoration and the Methodists of the late eighteenth century that would seem to lessen the antagonism toward the Methodists. To the satirists of the Restoration, Dissenters were reminders of civil war, regicide, the chaos that religious division could bring. Now the only threat of religious war or major civil disturbance had come from the Jacobites, and even that threat was safely in the past. It is notable that Swift, Pope, and Gay tended to satirize Dissenters within the context of larger problems. The assault on Methodists, then, is actually not a continuation of anti-Dissenter satire but something new. Hence the whole movement of anti-Methodist satire in the sixties and seventies has an untypically violent tone which cannot be explained solely in terms of satiric trends or religious attitudes. The explanation lies, I think, partly in the social, political, and economic background.

The Methodist movement was perhaps the most dramatic symptom (or at least the symptom hardest to ignore) of the changes taking place in England. The Methodist open-air services were needed because new industrial areas had sprung up where there were no churches, and lay preachers were necessary because of population shifts but also because of the increase in population made possible by new agricultural and manufacturing methods. The practice of taking lay preachers from many social classes had obvious democratic implications. Wesley, in spite of his political conservatism, challenged a number of widely-held, complacent aphorisms, such as the belief that people are “poor only because they are idle.”[3]The mass emotionalism of the evangelical meetings were reminders that man was not so rational as certain popular ideas tried to make him. Wesley’s insistence (with irritatingly good evidence) that he did no more than adhere to the true doctrine of the Church of England strongly suggested that the Church of England had strayed somewhere. (It is rather interestingly paralleled by Wilkes’s insistence that he only wanted to return to the Declaration of Rights, a reminder that the government had also strayed.) And Methodism, by its very existence and popularity, posed the question of whether the Church of England, in its traditional form, was capable of dealing with problems created by social and economic changes.

These social, economic, and political issues are touched upon by a number of the anti-Methodist satirists. Most of these satirists, however, are contented simply to complain about the lower class tone of the Methodist movement, to note generally, as Dryden and Swift had noted before, that Protestantism contained the seeds of mob rule. The anonymous author ofThe Saintsfears “Their frantic pray’r [is] a mereDecoyforMob” (p. 4) and the author[4]ofThe Methodist and Mimicclaims that Whitefield’s preaching sends “the Brainless Mob a gadding” (p. 15). Evan Lloyd is the one anti-Methodist satirist who explores the larger implications.

Lloyd constructs his satire around the theme of general corruption, that nothing is so virtuous that it cannot be spoiled either by man’s weakness or by time. The theme is common in the period and could have become banal, except that Lloyd applies it to the corruption of the Church and its manifestations in daily life, giving it an immediate, lively reference. The Methodist practice of lay preachers, for example, Lloyd treats as an instance of the collapse of the class system:

Each vulgar Trade, each sweaty BrowIs search’d....Hence ev’ry Blockhead, Knave, and Dunce,Start into Preachers all at once (p. 29).

Lloyd combines the language of theology, government, and civil order to suggest a connection between recent riots, the excesses of the Earl of Bute, the Protestant belief that religious concepts are easily understood by all social classes, democracy, the emotional displays of Methodism, and lay preachers:

Hence Ignorance of ev’ry size,Of ev’ry shape Wit can devise,Altho’ so dull it hardly knows, ...When it is Day, or when ’tis Night,Shall yet pretend to keep the KeyOfGod’s dark Secrets, and displayHishidden Mysteries, as freeAs ifGod’s privy CouncilHe,Shall to his Presence rush, and dareTo raise apious Riotthere (pp. 29-30).

Lloyd presents an essentially disorderly world in which chaos spreads almost inevitably, in which riots, corrupt ministers, arrogant fools, disrespectful lower classes, giddy middle classes, and lascivious upper classes are barely kept in check by a system of social class, government, and church. Now, with the checks withdrawn, lawyers and physicians spread their own disorder even further as they:

Quit their beloved wranglingHall,More loudly in aChurchto bawl: ...And full as fervent, on their Knees,ForHeav’nthey pray, as once forFees; ...ThePhysic-Tribetheir Art resign,And lose theQuackin theDivine; ...Of aNew-birththey prate, and prateWhileMidwifryis out of Date (pp. 30-31).

He combines the language of tradesmen with the language of mythology and theology to suggest, rather wittily and effectively, that disorder can be commonplace and cosmic simultaneously:

TheBricklay’rthrows hisTrowelby,And nowbuilds Mansions in the Sky; ...TheWatermanforgets hisWherry,And opens acelestial Ferry; ...TheFishermenno longer setForFishthe Meshes of their Net,But catch, likePeter,Men of Sin,Forcatchingis totake them in(pp. 32-34).

This spreading confusion is, however, not just a passing social problem but one that results from many breasts being “tainted” and many hearts “infected” (p. 34). The corruption is almost universal and results in Wesley (as he actually did) selling “Powders, Draughts, and Pills.” Madan “the springs of Healthunlocks,/ And by his Preaching cures theP[ox],” (he was Chaplain of Lock Hospital) and Romaine:

Pulls you byGravity up-Hill, ...By yourbad DeedsyourFaithyou shew,’Tis butbelieve, andup You go(p. 36).

Lloyd treats the confusion between sexual desire and religious fervor as another aspect of general human depravity, extending the satire beyond the crude accusation of hypocrisy or cynicism. He argues that the confusion is a part of the human condition, allowed to go out of control by a religion that puts passion before reason. The Countess of Huntingdon, “cloy’d withcarnalBliss,” longs “to taste howSpiritskiss.” In his all-inclusive catalogue of “Knaves/ That crawl onEarth” Lloyd includes “Prudesthat crowd toPews,/ While theirThoughtsramble to theStews” (p. 48).

What makes Lloyd interesting, in spite of his many derivative ideas and techniques, is inadvertently pointed out by theCritical Review, which complains that “the author outmethodizes even Methodism itself.”[5]That the brutal tone ofThe Methodistwent beyond the license usually permitted the satirists was recognized by Lloyd himself. At the conclusion of the satire he asks God to halt the Methodist movement by getting to its source:

Quench the hot flame, O God, that BurnsAndPietytoPhrenzyturns!

And then, after a few lines, he applies the same terms to himself:

But soft——myMuse! thy Breath recall——Turn notReligion’s Milk to Gall!Let not thyZealwithin thee nurseAholy Rage! orpious Curse!Far other is theheav’nly Plan,Which theRedeemergave to Man (pp. 52-53).

The satirist, as Robert C. Elliott points out, has always, in art, satirized himself.[6]But there is here as throughout this satire, some attempt to develop a style which will express the belief that the world will always be disorderly and that the disorder stems from man’s “Zeal within.” This condition of the world can be expressed satirically by a personal, informal satire which recognizes and dramatizes just how universal the corruption is and how commonplace its manifestations have become.

The informal, disorderly syntax, the colloquial diction, the chatty tone, the run-on lines, the conscious roughness of meter and rhyme, may have derived from Churchill, but they become here more relevant than in any of Churchill’s satires. They combine with the intemperate tone and the satirist’s concluding confession, his self-identification with the object of satire, to create a sense of an unheroic satirist, one who does not represent a highly commendable satiric alternative. Satire must now turn its vision from the heroic, the apocalyptic, the broadly philosophical, even from the depraved, and become exceedingly ordinary. It must recognize that there is little hope in going back to lofty Augustan ideals. For such subjects, it uses the impulsive tone of an over-emotional satirist who is as flawed as the subject he satirizes and still represents the best of a disordered world.

Lloyd had attempted an autobiographical satire inThe Curate. He failed to create an important satire for a number of reasons, one of which was that he tried to present himself as a high ideal, a belief that he apparently held so weakly that the satire became merely petulant. Lloyd corrected this error inThe Methodistand now seems, however briefly, to have opened the way to a truly prophetic style of satire.

AfterThe MethodistLloyd wroteConversation, a satire that not only failed to fulfill the promise ofThe Methodistbut is more conservative in theme and style than any of his earlier satires.

After that work he produced little. He published an expanded version ofThe Power of the Penand a dull ode printed inThe Annual Register. When William Kenrick, inLove in the Suds, implied that Garrick was Isaac Bickerstaff’s lover, Lloyd defended Garrick inEpistle to David Garrick. Kenrick replied withA Whipping for the Welch Parson, an ironic Dunciad-Variorum-type editing of Lloyd’sEpistle, in which he got much the better of Lloyd. Lloyd was no match for Kenrick at this sort of thing. Except for these uninteresting productions and his convivial friendship with Wilkes and Garrick, we hear not much more of Lloyd.

We know so little about his life that we can only speculate why he failed to follow up the promise ofThe Methodist; why, after favorable reviews from the journals[7]and the flattering friendship of famous men, he was not encouraged to continue a career that was as promising as the early career of many famous satirists. The explanation may lie solely in his personality. Perhaps the moderate success he achieved and the financial rewards it brought were enough for him.

Another explanation is suggested by the conservative ideas and style ofConversation, which are more like Pope’s than are the ideas and style of any earlier satire of Lloyd’s. In this satire he explicitly repudiates his older, freer critical dicta in both theory and practice:

Tho’ this beForm—yet bend toFormwe must,Foolswith itplease,without itWits disgust (p. 3).

He uses mostly end-stop couplets, parallel constructions, Augustan diction and similes. Apparently, he began his rejection of his new ideas and style immediately afterThe Methodistand before his 1766-1767 outburst of satire-writing was over.

Lloyd, in writingThe Methodist, seems to have come as close as any satirist before Blake and the writers ofThe Anti-Jacobinto seeing the problems England and the world were headed toward, to recognizing how genuinely volatile English society was in the middle of the century, and to creating a style which could deal with those problems satirically. It may be that he got some realization that his own long passages inThe Methodistpraising this best of all possible worlds (pp. 16-20) and his invocation to the “heav’nly Plan” at the conclusion made no sense, that they were contradicted by other passages in the same satire, that England and the world were changing with enormous rapidity, and that the satirist would have to create a new style to express the tremendous economic, political, social, and religious problems that were coming into being. It may be that getting such a faint notion he withdrew into artistic conservatism, into conviviality, and into silence.

Temple University

[1]For a survey of all Lloyd’s work see Cecil J. L. Price,A Man of Genius and a Welch Man(University of Swansea, Wales, 1963). Lloyd is the subject of an unpublished dissertation,The Moral Beau, by Paul E. Parnell (New York University, 1956). Two short passages fromThe Methodistare included inThe Penguin Book of Satirical Verse, ed. Edward Lucie-Smith (Baltimore, 1967).

[1]For a survey of all Lloyd’s work see Cecil J. L. Price,A Man of Genius and a Welch Man(University of Swansea, Wales, 1963). Lloyd is the subject of an unpublished dissertation,The Moral Beau, by Paul E. Parnell (New York University, 1956). Two short passages fromThe Methodistare included inThe Penguin Book of Satirical Verse, ed. Edward Lucie-Smith (Baltimore, 1967).

[2]Most recently, Albert M. Lyles,Methodism Mocked(London, 1960).

[2]Most recently, Albert M. Lyles,Methodism Mocked(London, 1960).

[3]Journal, 8 February 1753, quoted by A. R. Humphreys,The Augustan World(New York, 1963), p. 20.

[3]Journal, 8 February 1753, quoted by A. R. Humphreys,The Augustan World(New York, 1963), p. 20.

[4]The pseudonymous author, Peter Paragraph, is identified by Halkett and Laing,Dictionary of Anonymous and Pseudonymous English Literature, as James Makittrick Adair. Adair did write some works under that pseudonym but probably did not writeThe Methodist and Mimic. Lyles,op. cit., p. 129n., suggests that the author may be Samuel Foote, in whose play,The Orators, a character, Peter Paragraph, appears, probably representing George Faulkner. Robert Lloyd, in “The Cobbler of Cripplegate’s Letter,” hints that Peter Paragraph may be Bonnel Thornton.

[4]The pseudonymous author, Peter Paragraph, is identified by Halkett and Laing,Dictionary of Anonymous and Pseudonymous English Literature, as James Makittrick Adair. Adair did write some works under that pseudonym but probably did not writeThe Methodist and Mimic. Lyles,op. cit., p. 129n., suggests that the author may be Samuel Foote, in whose play,The Orators, a character, Peter Paragraph, appears, probably representing George Faulkner. Robert Lloyd, in “The Cobbler of Cripplegate’s Letter,” hints that Peter Paragraph may be Bonnel Thornton.

[5]The Critical Review, XXIII (1766), pp. 75-77.

[5]The Critical Review, XXIII (1766), pp. 75-77.

[6]The Power of Satire(Princeton, 1960), p. 222 andpassim.

[6]The Power of Satire(Princeton, 1960), p. 222 andpassim.

[7]The Methodist was reviewed byThe Monthly Review, XXV (1766), pp. 319-321, andGentleman’s Magazine, XXXVI (1766), p. 335.Conversationwas reviewed more favorably byThe Monthly Review, XXXVII (1767), p. 394, and byThe Critical ReviewXXIV (1767), pp. 341-343.The Critical Reviewcompared him with Swift.

[7]The Methodist was reviewed byThe Monthly Review, XXV (1766), pp. 319-321, andGentleman’s Magazine, XXXVI (1766), p. 335.Conversationwas reviewed more favorably byThe Monthly Review, XXXVII (1767), p. 394, and byThe Critical ReviewXXIV (1767), pp. 341-343.The Critical Reviewcompared him with Swift.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTEThis facsimile ofThe Methodist(1766) is reproduced from a copy [840. k. 10. (18.)] in the British Museum by kind permission of the Trustees.T H EMETHODIST.APOEM.BYsignature of E LloydAUTHOR OFThe Powers of the Pen, and The Curate.LONDON:PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR;And Sold byRichardsonandUrquhart, under theRoyal-Exchange, Cornhill.——————MDCCLXVI.T H EMETHODIST.Nothing, search all creation round,Nothing sofirmly goodis found,Whose substance, with such closeness knit,Corruption’sTouchwill not admit;But, spite of all incroaching stains,Its native purity retains:Whose texture will nor warp, nor fade,Though moths and weather shou’d invade,WhichTime’s sharp tooth cannot corrode,Proof againstAccidentandMode;And, maugre each assailing dart,Thrown by the hand of Force, or Art,Remains (let Fate do what it will)Simpleanduncorruptedstill.Virtue, of constitution nice,Quickly degen’rates intoVice;Change but thePerson,Place, andTime,And what wasMeritturns toCrime.Wisdom, which men with so much pain,With so much weariness attain,May in a little moment quit,And abdicate the throne of Wit,And leave, a vacant seat, the brain,For Folly to usurp and reign.Should you but discompose the tide,On whichIdeaswont to ride,Fermentit with ayeasty Storm,Or with highFloods of Winedeform;Altho’Sir Oracleis he,Who is as wise, as wise can be,In one short minute we shall findThe wise man gone, a fool behind.Courage, that is all nerve and heart,That dares confront Death’s brandish’d dart,That dares to single Fight defyThe stoutest Hector of the sky,Whose mettle ne’er was known to slack,Nor wou’d on thunder turn his back;How small a matter may controul,And sooth the fury of his soul!Shou’d this intrepid Mars, his clayDilute with nerve-relaxing Tea,Thin broths, thin whey, or water-gruel,He is no longer fierce and cruel,But mild and gentle as a dove,TheHero’s melted down toLove.Thejuicessoften’d, (here we noteMore on thejuicesthan theCoatDepends, to make a valiant MarsRich in the heraldry of scars)TheManissoften’dtoo, and shewsNo fondness for a bloody nose.WhenGeorgy S—k——le shunn’d the Fray,He’d swill’d a little too much Tea.Chastitymelts like sun-kiss’d snow,When Lust’s hot wind begins to blow.Let but thathorrid Creature, Man,Breathe on a lady thro’ her fan,HerVirtuethaws, and by and byeWill of thefalling Sicknessdie.Lo!Beauty, still more transitory,Fades in the mid-day of its glory!ForNaturein her kindness swore,That she who kills, shall kill no more;And in pure mercy does eraseEach killing feature in the face;Plucks from the cheek the damask rose,E’en at the moment that it blows;Dims the bright lustre of those eyesTo which the Gods wou’d sacrifice;Dries the moist lip, and pales its hue,And brushes off its honied dew;Flattens the proudly swelling chest,Furrows the round elastic breast,And all the Loves that on it play’d,Are in a tomb of wrinkles laid;Recalls those charms, which she design’dToplease, and notbewitchMankind;But with too delicate a touch,Heightening theOrnamentstoo much,She finds her daughters can convertBlessings to curses, good to hurt,Proof of parental love to give,She blots them out that Man may live.The hour will come (which let not meIndulgent Nature, live to see!)The hour will come, whenChloe’s formShall with its beauty feed the worm;That face where troops of Cupids throng,Whose charms first warm’d me into song,Shall wrinkle, wither, and decay,To Age, and to Disease, a prey!Chloe, in whom are so combin’dThe charms of body and of mind,As might to Earth elicitJove,Thinking his Heav’n well left for Love;Perfection as she is, the hourWill come, when she must feel the pow’rOfTime, and to his wither’d arms,Resign the rifling of her charms!Must veil her beauties in a cloud,A grave her bed, her robe a shroud!When all her glowing, vivid bloom,Must fade and wither in the tomb!When she who bears the ensigns now,Of Beauty’s Priestess on her brow,Shall to th’ abhorr’d embrace of DeathGive up the sweetness of her breath!When worms—but stop,Description, there—My heart cannot the picture bear—Sickens to think there is a day,WhenChloewill be made a preyTo Death, a piece-meal feast for himWith rav’nous jaw to tear each limb,And feature after feature eat,WhileBeautyonly serves forMeat—Wretched to know that this is true,Forbear t’ anticipate the view!Hence,Observation!—take your leave!—And kindly,Memory, deceive!And when some forty years are fled,And age has on her beauties fed,DearSelf-Delusion! lend thy skillTo fancy she isChloestill!CitiesandEmpireswill decay,And toCorruptionfall a prey!Athens, of arts the native land,Cou’d not the stroke of Time withstand;There Serpents hiss, and ravens croak,WhereSocratesandPlatospoke.ProudTroyherself (as all things must)Is crumbled into native dust;Is now a pasture, where the beastStrays for his vegetable feast,OldPriam’s royal palace nowMay couch the ox, the ass, the cow.—Rome, city of imperial worth,The mighty mistress of the earth;Rome, that gave law to all the world,Is now to blank Destruction hurl’d!—Is now a sepulchre, a tomb,To tell the stranger, “Here wasRome.”—View theWest Abbey! there we seeHow frail a thing is royalty!Where crowns and sceptres worms supply,And kings and queens, like lumber lie.TheTombs themselvesare worn away,And own the empire ofDecay,Mouldering like the royal dust,Which to preserve they have in trust.Nor has theMarblemore withstoodThe rage ofTime, thanFlesh and Blood!TheKing of Stoneis worn away,As well as is theKing of Clay—Here lies aKing without a Nose,And there aPrince without his Toes;Here on her back aRoyal FairLies, but a little worse for wear;Those lips, whose touch cou’d almost turnOld age to youth, and make it burn;To which young kings were proud to kneel,Are kick’d by every Schoolboy’s heel;Struck rudely by theShowman’s Wand,And crush’d by every callous Hand:Here apuissant MonarchfrownsIn menace high to rival Crowns;He threatens—but will do no harm—OurMonarchhas not left an arm.Thus allThingsfeel the gen’ral curse,That all Things must with Time grow worse.But your Philosophers will say,Best Things grow worst when they decay.And many facts they have at handTo prove it, shou’d you proofs demand.As ifCorruptionshut her jaw,And scorn’d to cram her filthy maw,With aught but dainties rich and rare,And morsels of the choicest fare;As garden Birds are led to bite,Where’er the fairest fruits invite.IfPhœbus’rays too fiercely burn,Therichest Winestosourestturn:And they who livinghighly fed,Will breed aPestilence when dead.ThusAldermen, who at each Feast,Cram Tons of Spices from the East,Whose leading wish, and only plan,Is to learn how topickle Man;Who more than vie withÆgypt’s art,And make themselves ahuman Tart,Awalking Pastry-Shop, aGut,Shambles by Wholesale to inglut;And gorge each high-concocted MessThe art of Cookery can dress:Yet spite of all, whenDeaththinks fitTo take them off, lest t’ other bitShou’d burst theseliving Mummies, ableNeither to eat, nor quit the Table;Whether He Dropsy sends or Gout,To fetch them by the Shoulders out;Tho’ living they wereSaltandSpice,The carcase is not over nice;And all may find, who have aNose,Dead Aldermenare not a rose.This reas’ning only serves to shew,The world call’dNatural, is so.But various instances proclaim,’Tis in themoral Worldthe same.ThusWoman, Nature’schastestwork,Lust-struck, out-paramours the Turk;Tho’gentleas the suckling Child,Enrag’d, than famish’d Wolves more wild;A more fell minister ofDeath—Rimegives the instance inMackbeth.Reason herself, thatsober Dame,So mild, so temperate, so tame,Her head once turn’d, and giddy grown,Raving with phrenzy not her own,Plays madder pranks, more full of spleenThan any Hoyden of sixteen.Whether she burns withLoveorHate,Or grows withbaseless Hopeselate,WithDesperationis forlorn,Or with imagin’d horrors torn,If onAmbition’s swelling tide,Her crazy bark from side to side,Reels like a drunkard, tempest-tost,Or in theGulph of Prideis lost;Whate’er theleading Passionbe,That works the Soul’s anxiety,In eachExtremeth’ effect is bad,Sensegrows diseas’d, andReasonmad.Why shou’d the Muse ofAngelstellTurn’d intoDevilswhen they fell?Why search the Chronicles ofHell,WhileEarthexamples it as well?Why talk ofSatan, while we seeEach day some new Apostacy?ToriestoWhigsconvert, andWhigs,Mere Ministerial Whirlegigs,Turn’d by the hand ofInt’rest, takeTheTory-part, for Lucre’s sake.PatriotsturnPlacemen, and supportAgainst their Country’s good the Court;Are bought withPensionsto retire,When drooping Kingdoms most requireTheir aid——Tho’ here the Muse wou’d fainExceptONE of thepension’d Train,(Onemeritorious ’bove the rest,Apatriot Minister, confest)Yet strictest honour can’t acquitThatPensioner, who once wasP——.Instance on instance to my viewCome rushing, of the changeling crew,That I could quarrel with my Nature,To think that Man is such a Creature—And are we all a fickle tribe,Venal to ev’ry golden bribe?Is there not one of honour found,In all the List ofPlacemenfound?Yes—onethere is, in perils tried,Yet never known tochange his Side,OrPrinciples—nor think it strange,He ne’er hadPrinciplesto change,And for aSide(the proof is new)He’snone, because thathe has two.Throw him fromParty’s giddy heights,ACat in Politicshe lightsEver upon his feet; his heartClings both toWhigandTory-part;Isthis, isthat, isboth, orneither,And still keeps shifting with the Weather.Who does not know thatT—s—d’s he,That reads theBook of Ministry?Thus let us turn where’er we will,Each Machiavel’s aChangelingstill.But tho’ among allNature’s worksThe seed of foulCorruptionlurks,Yet no where is it known to bearSo vile a Crop on Ground so fair,As when uponReligion’s rootIt raises Diabolic Fruit.When the Almighty Father’s LoveCall’d Things to Being, from aboveMillions of wingedBlessingsflew,Sent from his right hand, to bedewThe new-born Earth, and from their wingsShed good on allcreated Things.Precious and various tho’ the storeWhich down to Earth these Legates bore,ThatHeav’nly SparkweReason call,Was far the richest boon of all.Bythiswe findth’ Almighty CauseFrom whom the World its Being draws;By whom Earth’s plenteous Table’s spread,At which each living Creature’s fed;Whogave theBreath of Life, and whenceThis fineVarietyofSense;Whose Handsunfold the azure sky,Sublimely pleasing tothe Eye;Whotun’d the feather’d Songster’s throat,Giving such softness to his note,To fill theEarwith dulcet sound,And pour sweet Music all around;Who on the teeming Branches plac’dSuch various Fruit to please theTaste;What bounteous Hand perfum’d theRose,And ev’ry scented Flow’r that blows,And wafts its fragrance thro’ the Vale,Courting theSmellin ev’ry gale,Towhomit is we owe so muchSubstantial pleasure in theTouch;Andwhence, superior to the whole,Those raptures that transportthe Soul;Thisgives our Gratitude to glowTo him, from whom such Blessings flow;This teaches Man hismoral Part,And graftsReligionin the Heart.Glory to God, good Will to Man,And Peace on Earth, compos’d the plan,For whichReligionfirst came down,And brought to Earth aheav’nly Crown.Better her Purpose to complete,AndSatan’s Malice to defeat,A Troop ofholy Geniicame,Co-workers in the glorious Scheme.To each a scroll the Goddess gave,On which these lines She did engrave:“Go, teach the sons of Men to raiseTheir voice unto theirMaker’s praise.Go, call forthCharityto meetDistress that seeks her in the Street;Bid her the lame with Legs supply,And be unto the blind an Eye;A Mantle o’er the naked throw,And reach a healing hand to Woe;Visit the bed where Sickness lies,And wipe the tears from Orphans eyes;Bid her Affliction’s hour beguile,And teach the tear-worn Cheek to smile;Bid her send Comfort to expellGrief from the lonely Widow’s Cell;Make blunt the arrows of Mischance,And ope the eyes of Ignorance;To those lost Pilgrims point the Way,Who inSin’s tenfold Darkness stray,Recall them fromHell’s thickest night,And shewSalvation’s glorious Light;For thus the World that Peace shall find,For which it was byGoddesign’d.”—Such the commandsReligiongave,When first she came the World to save,Such the attendants in her Train,When She began her holy Reign.And whenMessiah’s gracious LoveUrg’d him to leave theRealmsabove,Urg’d him to quit hisheav’nly Throne,His People’s Trespass to atone,And, tho’ so long they had withstoodHis Will, to wash them with his Blood;The great Command he did renew,Togive to God, and Man his due;Bade the brightSun of Faitharise,And open’d Heav’n to mortal eyes,LeavingReligionon the Earth,More fair and pure than at her Birth.—How mutilated now and marr’d,Deform’d, distorted, mangled, scarr’d!Thro’modern ConventiclestraceThe Goddess, you’ll not know her face:Theholy Geniiall are fled,AndSpritesandDev’lscome in their stead.And now a counterfeiting DameUsurpsReligion’s sacred Name,But no more like inHeartorFace,ThanF—x’s deeds to deeds of Grace.Visit her at herT-tt—mSeat,You’ll find she is an errant Cheat.ForSatan, Man’s invet’rate foe,Whose greatest joy is human woe,Repining at the heav’nly Plan,That promis’d so much Good to Man,Us’d all his Malice, Wit, and Pow’r,The World’s great Blessings to devour.Well themalicious SpiritknewWhenceManhis chief resources drewOf Happiness, and saw confest,Where all was good,Religionbest;And at her unpolluted HeartHe aim’d his most envenom’d Dart.He knew the Interest ofHellCou’d never on theEarthgo well,Whilepure Religiondid maintainO’er Man a sanctimonious reign.With her he wag’d malicious War,He might, if not destroy her, marHer Face; might with false Lights misguide,And make her Combat on his side.Highly did hisAmbitionburnHeav’n’s Arms against itself to turn.Nor would hisMalicetriumph less,TodamnwhereGoddesign’d tobless.For thisthe Fiendto Earth ascends,To try his Int’rest with his Friends.Long in his fiery Chariot hurl’d,He had explor’d the pendent World;Long had he search’d without avail,EachMeeting,Dungeon,Court, andJail,EachMart of Villainy, whereVicePresides, andVirtuebears no Price,WhereFraud,Hypocrisy, andLiesAre selling while the Devil buys.Long had he search’d, but could not findAnAgentsuited to his Mind,Who cou’d transact his Business well,And do on Earth the work of Hell;That he might at his leisure go,And manage his Affairs below.—Tir’d and despairing of a FriendOn whom he safely might depend,AtT-tt—mhe alights from Air—Magus, thatSorcerer, was there.Pleas’dSatansomewhat nearer drew,Look’d thro’ him at a single view,Bless’d his good Luck, and grinn’d aghast—“’Tis well, for I have found at last,The Thing I long have sought, inThee,An Agent in Iniquity.Thus let me mark Thee for my own,And from henceforth forminebe known.”Then with out-stretched claws his EyesHetwisteddiff’rent ways—theSkiesAre watch’d byone, and (strange to tell!)Theotheris the Guard ofHell.Then thus—“’Tis fit thy Eyes shou’d roll,Crossas the purpose of thy Soul,Fit that they look a diff’rent way,Like what Youdo, and what Yousay;ThyEye-ballsnow are pois’d and hung,As even as thyHeartandTongue—Prosper—tome, toHell(he cried)Be true, but false to all beside.Riches are mine—I will repayFor ev’ry Soul you lead astray—Give out thyself a Light to shewWhich way ’tis best to Heav’n to go;But lead the Pilgrims wrong, and shineAnIgnis fatuusof mine—Draw them thro’ bog, thro’ brake, thro’ mire,I’ll dry them at arousing Fire.”Maguscomplacent smil’d—his EyesTwinkled with signs of Joy, one fliesUpward, and t’other down, like Scales,Where this ascends, when that prevails—Thenthricehe turn’d upon his heel,And swore Allegiance to theDe’el—Right faithfully hisOathhe kept,And might each Night before he sleptBoast of his labours to maintain,And spread abroad hisMaster’s Reign;Might boast the magic of his RodTo whip away theLove of God,For all ofGodhe makes appearHas nought tolove, but all tofear.That debt, whichGratitudeeach dayPaying, wou’d still own much to pay;Instead ofDutyfreely paid,ATyrant’shard Exaction’s made.Fitted the simple to cajole,First of his Wits, and then his Soul,He urges fifty false Pretences,Preaching his Hearers from their Senses.He knows hisMaster’s Realm so well,His Sermons are aMap of Hell,AnOlliomade ofConflagration,OfGulphs of Brimstone, andDamnation,Eternal Torments,Furnace,Worm,Hell-Fire, aWhirlwind, and aStorm,WithMammon,Satan, andPerdition,AndBeelzebubto help the Dish on;BelialandLucifer, and allThenick-Nameswhichold Nickwe call—But he has ta’en especial care,To have norSensenorReasonthere.A thousand scorching Words beside,Over his tongue as glibly slide,Familiar as a glass of wine,Or a Tobacco-pipe on mine;That You wou’d swear he was compleater,ThanPowell, as aFire-Eater.Virgins he will seduce astray,Only to shew the shortest WayToHeaven, and because it liesAbove theZodiacin the Skies,That theymay better see the Track,He lays them downupon their Back.Domestic Peace he can destroy,And the confusion view with Joy,Children from Parents he can draw,What’sConscience?—he is safe fromLaw—The closest Union can divide,Take Husbands from their Spouses’ side,But it turns out to better Use,Wives from their Husbands to seduce;And as their Journey liesup-Hill,Ev’ry Incumbrance were an Ill;And lest their Speed shou’d be withstood,He takes theirMoney—for their Good.Such is the AgentSatanchose,Religion’s Progress to oppose—Too great the Task foronewas thought,Andunder-Agentsmust be sought—On this high Enterprize intent,A troop ofevil Spriteshe sent,Commission’d, wheresoe’er they foundHearts hollow, rotten, and unsound,Within those Breasts accurs’d to dwell,Teaching the Liturgy ofHell.Big with the Charge th’ infernal CrewTo their belov’d Appointment flew;With busy search thro’ ev’ry Class,Thro’ ev’ry Rank of Men they pass,In ev’ry Class of Men they findSomeHeartscorrupted to their Mind,Ev’ry Profession they explore,Ev’ry Profession gives them more;The higher Functions ransack’d, nowEach vulgar Trade, each sweaty BrowIs search’d, and in them all were found,Some hollow, rotten, and unsound.In each depraved Bosom dwellTheseSprites, nor miss their nativeHell.Hence ev’ry Blockhead, Knave, and Dunce,Start into Preachers all at once.Hence Ignorance of ev’ry size,Of ev’ry shape Wit can devise,Altho’ so dull it hardly knows,Which are its Fingers, which its Toes,Which is the left Hand, which the Right,When it is Day, or when ’tis Night,Shall yet pretend to keep the KeyOfGod’s dark Secrets, and displayHishidden Mysteries, as freeAs ifGod’sprivy CouncilHe,Shall to his Presence rush, and dareTo raise apious Riotthere.Lawyers(a Commutation strange!)Coke LittletonforBiblechange;Quit their beloved wranglingHall,More loudly in aChurchto bawl:Statutes at largeare thrown aside,And now theTestament’s their guide;And full as fervent, on their Knees,ForHeav’nthey pray, as once forFees;Plaintiff,Defendant, andmy Lord,Are banish’d, and nowFaith’s the Word,OfBriefsno longer now they dream,Religionis the only Theme.ThePhysic-Tribetheir Art resign,And lose theQuackin theDivine;Galenlies on the Shelf unread,APray’r-Bookopen in its stead;Salvationnow is all theCant,Salvationis theonlyWant.“Throw Physic to the Dogs,” they cry,’Twill never bring you to the Sky.Of aNew-birththey prate, and prateWhileMidwifryis out of Date;Let Fevers, Agues, take their turn,To freeze the Patient, or to burn,In vain he seeks the Physic Tribe,NoRecipewill they prescribe,But what is sovereign to controulThe Maladies that hurt the Soul.And tho’ whileBody-quacks, withPillOrBolus, ’twas their Trade to kill,More miserably still, alack!For thediseased Soultheyquack.TheSons of Warsometimes are knownTo fight with Weapons not their own,Ceasing theSword of Steelto wield,They takeReligion’sSword and Shield.Ev’ryMechanicwill commenceOrator, withoutMoodorTense.PuddingisPuddingstill, they know,Whether it has a Plumb or no;So, tho’ the Preacher has no skill,ASermonis aSermonstill.TheBricklay’rthrows hisTrowelby,And nowbuilds Mansions in the Sky;TheCobbler, touch’d withholy Pride,Flings hisold Shoes, andLastaside,And now devoutly sets aboutCobbling ofSoulsthatne’er wear out;TheBaker, now aPreachergrown,Finds Manlives not by Bread alone,And now his Customers he feedsWithPray’rs, withSermons,GroansandCreeds;TheTinman, mov’d by Warmth within,HammerstheGospel, just likeTin;Weavers inspir’dtheirShuttlesleave,Sermons, andflimsy Hymnsto weave;Barbersunreap’d will leave the Chin,To trim, and shave theMan within;TheWatermanforgets hisWherry,And opens acelestial Ferry;TheBrewer, bit by Phrenzy’s Grub,TheMashingfor thePreaching TubResigns,those Watersto explore,Which if You drink, youthirst no more;TheGard’ner, weary of his Trade,Tir’d of the Mattock, and the Spade,Chang’d toApollosin a Trice,WatersthePlants of Paradise;TheFishermenno longer setForFishthe Meshes of their Net,But catch, likePeter,Men of Sin,Forcatchingis totake them in.Well had the wand’ring Spirits sped,And thro’ the World their Poison spread,Made Lodgments in each tainted Breast;And each infected Heart possess’d.Thewayward Bus’nessbeing done,Satanto make his Choice begunOfunder-Ministers, to doWhatOnecou’d not be equal to.Asecond Agent, like the first,Who onDæmoniac Milkwas nurst,HadMoorfieldstrusted to his Care,ForSatankeepsan Officethere.Leanis theSaint, andlank, to shewThatFlesh and Blood to Heav’n can’t go;His Hair likeCandleshangs, a signHow bright hisinward Candlesshine.OfSatan’sAgentsthesethe Chief,A thousand others lend Relief,And take some labour off their Hands,Each as th’internal Spritecommands:But working with adiff’rent Spell,They lead by various Ways toHell.Sickens the Soul? and is its stateWithSin’s Disease grown desperate?To divers Quacks you may apply,Andspecial Nostrumsof them buy.Tottenham’s the best accustom’d Place,ThereMagus squintsMen intoGrace.W-s—ysells Powders, Draughts, and Pills,Sov’reign against all sorts of Ills,Assurancecharms away the Fit,Or at least makes it intermit—M-d—nthe springs of Healthunlocks,And by his Preaching cures theP——R-m—neworks greater Wonders still,Pulls you byGravity up-Hill,And for whate’er you doamiss,Rewards you withcelestial Bliss;By yourbad DeedsyourFaithyou shew,’Tis butbelieve, andup You go.B—rr—sandW-r—rset up Shop,To sellReligion’sPill and Drop,They teach their Patients how to flyOnVoiceandActionto the Sky.One of theMagi of the East,Alittle perking, puppet-Priest,Has got theHarlequino-way,His Patients Heav’nward to convey;And their Salvation to advance,AJigwillat the Altar dance.Such were thePlenipo’s inTown,Who serv’d theDiabolicCrown.Not far remov’d, afemale FriendGave Proofs, thatSatanmight dependOn her best Service, and support,For what serv’d him, to her was Sport.H——, cloy’d withcarnalBliss,Longing to taste howSpiritskiss,BidsChapelsfor herSaintsarise,Which are butBagniosin Disguise;Where She may suck herT——’s Breath,Expiring inseraphicDeath.ThatSatanbetter might succeed,Ofother Agentshe had need,HisCountry-Int’restto support,WhileDoddwaspreachingto the Court.The Town was left, and now his FlightBore to theNorththe horridSprite;Now had he travers’d many a League,And felt, asSpiritsfeel, Fatigue,When, in a dark, romantic Wood,In which an antique Mansion stood,He spied, close to a Hovel-door,ASaintconversing with hisWhore.Double he seem’d, and worn with Age,Little adapted to engageInLove’s hot War, too dry his TrunkTo cope with a lascivious Punk;So humble too he seem’d, You’d swear,Humilityherself was there;So like aSawyertoo hebows,You’d think that he wasMeekness’Spouse;ButSatanread hisVisage-lines,And found some favourable Signs,That thismeek Saintmight,in the Dark,Make hisInfernalshipaClerk;Tho’ muffled inReligion’s CloakSo close, that it might almost choakAPharisee, it might be stillOnly aCloakto doff at Will;HisSpeechmight be an acted Part,A Language foreign to hisHeart.He knew, that tho’ upon hisTongue,Religion, a mereCant-word, hung,He might forget it in hisWork,And be atHearta veryTurk.FinesseandTrickwou’d ne’er succeed,If Men wou’d only learn to read,To read the Lines ofNature’s Pen,Drawn in theCountenance of Men,Where Truth speaks out distinct and clear,If we had but the Trick to hear.So far’d it withour Saint, while HeWou’d seem downrightHumility,Some honest Features cry’d aloud,“Our Master is of Spirit proud.”Pass him with Bonnet on, his LipWill hang as low as to his Hip;His bloated Eye its Venom darts,And from its gloomy Socket starts;And if theBody’s frame we scan,He cannot be anupright Man.And there are Proofs, from which we seeHisBodyand hisSoulagree.Altho’ he is as fond ofPray’rs,As Country Girls of Country Fairs;Yet shou’d he in the Church-yard spySometempting Wantonpassing by,E’en at the Moment that his KneeIs bent in Sign ofPiety,Quick hisDevotionleaves theHeart,And settles in someother Part;The Book ofPray’ris shut, andHeav’nFor the dear Charms ofCœliagiv’n.Th’Arch-Fiendthissaintly Sinnerspied,And with malicious Pleasure ey’d,Well pleas’d to think that he had foundSuch aHell-Factorabove Ground;And thus began th’ infernal Sprite—“Libidinoso!if I’m right!Art thou that Son of mine on Earth,Whose deeds so loud proclaim thy Birth?Of whom so many Strumpets tellSuch Tales as get Thee Fame inHell?But Children know not whence they spring,Whether by Beggar got, or King;Yet I bycertain Markscan know,Whether Thou artmy Child, or no.Uncase—and let me see your Waist—For there are private Tokens plac’d,By whichmy ownI know—if thereNo secret Lines of mine appear,I claim Thee not—but if I seeThe twoInitialsFandP,Then art Thoumine—nay, never start—AndHeav’ncan claimin Theeno Part”—And now his sapless Trunk he stripp’d,Like Culprits sentenc’d to be whipp’d,When lo! th’Initialsrose to View,And prov’d the Fiend’s Conjecture true.And all his Waist (detested Brand!)Was scribbled with theDev’l’s short Hand;Was mark’d withWhoredom,Lust, andLetchery,Malice,Hypocrisy, andTreachery,WithEnvy,Lying, andBetraying,WithFasting,Wenching,Fiddling,Praying,And all theCatalogue of SinDeeply engraven in his Skin—Pleas’d thegrim Pow’rsurvey’d, and smil’d,Embrac’d and said—“My darling Child,Blest was the Hour, and blest the Spot,Where Thou,my ’Bidin, wert begot.Know then, you’re not what You profess,Her Son, whose Lands you do possess;No—Thou’rtmy wayward Son, a WitchLitter’d thee in a loathsome Ditch;And (for all Creatures love the YoungWhich from their proper Loins are sprung)To this old Mansion thee convey’d,And in an Infant’s Cradle laid:And when theSorc’ressplac’d thee there,She stole away thenative Heir—Right well hast Thou, my Boy, repaidTheObligationson thee laid,And to thy Parents’ Int’rest trueHast prov’d thy Fortunes were thy due—Go on—and, if thou canst, do more(But ’t may not be) than heretofore—Keep the same Path You always trod,And be an Enemy toGod;Apply your Fortune to oppress,And harrassVirtuewith Distress;To hide your Blemishes use Paint,To screen theVillainplay theSaint;AffectReligion,Churchfrequent,Kneel,seemto pray, and keep upLent—Charitytoo must be display’d,ButCharity in Masquerade;GiveAlms—but not to those that need,But only for theGallows feed;Whene’er you meet apreaching Thief,Be prompt to reach him out Relief;IfLiars,Flatt’rers,Pandars,Pimps,Or any of my vagrant Imps,Approach Thee, to thy Mansion take,And give them Welcome for my Sake;Butneedy Meritmust not dareTo hope with thesethy Almsto share,Committhatto theBridewell-lash,But give it neitherFoodnorCash;Distinguish’d Honour shalt thou gainInPandæmonium, for thy Pain.But—one Word more—My Mind misgives,ThatVirtuea nearNeighbourlives—For in my search to find out Thee,I spied in this VicinityA Knot of Friends, where I cou’d traceHonouremblazon’d in their Face,These (for their Thoughts I plainly see)Bear no good Will to you or me;Foolishly honest, cheap they holdLibidinosoand his Gold,And will maintain, to Conscience true,Their Virtue, spite of Me and You.Altho’ your Influence be weak,Oppose them foropposing’ Sake,Do ev’ry little Act of Spite,And snarl, altho’ You cannot bite—Be faithful—there will come a Day,When I thy Services will pay,Will bring Thee to my Realm, and makeTheePilot of the burning Lake.”He said—and quick as Thought withdrew,And to th’ infernal Regions flew;Blue sulph’rous streaks the Peasants scare,Marking his passage thro’ the Air—Libidinosoleft behind,Began revolving in his MindHis Master’s Promises, and sigh’dTo have them fully ratified;Then homeward plodded, (but, be sure,Before he went, he kiss’d his Whore)Resolv’d, if possible, on moreAnd greater Evils than before.All vain was the Resolve—his CupOfWickednesswas quite fill’d up,And no Cup can another dropContain, when fill’d up to the Top.Since all Improvement was forbid,What cou’d he do, but what he did?Nought he diminish’d of the Charge,But actsHell’s Minister at large.APair of Adamantine Lungs,AThroat of Brass,Fame’s hundred Tongues,Time out of Mind have been confest,Byfifty Poets, at the least,Too little to countHybla’s Bees,TheLeaves that cloathe the Forest-Trees;TheSands that broider Neptune’s Side,OrWavesthat on his Bosom ride;TheGrainswhich richSiciliayields,TheBladeswith whichSpringrobes the Fields;TheStarswhich twinkling on the sightJove’sThresholdmake so glorious bright:Or (if we may annex to theseModern Impossibilities)To reckon up the sum ofKnavesThat crawl onEarth, or sleep inGraves,To count thePrudesthat crowd toPews,While theirThoughtsramble to theStews,Lords, whose sole Merit is theirPlace,Ladies, whose Worth’s apainted Face,Who findmy Lordhas lost hisForceInLove, and sue for aDivorce;Or to abridge, and enter downThe Names of all theFools in Town;Or number those wholive by Ink,Andwrite, altho’ they cannotthink;Critics, who judge, but cannot read,Andpraise, orcensure—as they’refee’d;Or counteach BardbySelfbetray’d,Who thought, when fondled byhis Maid,It wasMelpomenethat smil’d,And mark’d him for her fav’riteChild,But finds theHarvestof his Lines,Is tofast twiceforonce he dines.As well theMusemight one of thesePoets’ ImpossibilitiesAssay to do, and speed as well,As if She should attempt to tellTheNamesandCharactersofallThat on the Name ofSatancall,That preach, and lie, and whine, and cant,Soldiers forHell’s Church Militant;And use the Head, the Heart, the Hand,To spreadits Doctrinesthro’ the Land.Arithmetic herselfwere dumb,If task’d with such an endless Sum;Nor wou’d theMuse, tho’ one more LineWou’d all the Host ofHellentwine,Bestow another drop of Ink,To map out aninfernal Sink—Thou God of Truth and Love! excuseThehonest Angerof theMuse,Warm inthy Cause, while She wou’d prayThat Thou fromEarthwou’d’st sweep awaySuchrotten Saints, who wou’d concealTheirFraudbeneath the Name ofZeal!Who, mask’d withspurious Piety,Trample onReason,Truth, andThee,And, while their hot Career they run,Tread on theGospelof thy Son!Who, feigning to adore, make TheeATyrant-Godof Cruelty!As if thyright Handdid containOnly an Universe of Pain,HellandDamnationin thyLeft,Of ev’ry gracious Gift bereft,Hence raining Floods of Grief and Woes,On those that never were thy Foes,Ordaining Torments for the doomOf Infants, yet within the Womb:By fifty false Devices more,WhichReasonnever heard before,AndMethodistsalone cou’d dream,Thy boundlessGoodnessthey blaspheme!Who (tho’ ourSaviour’s gracious PlanWas to teach Happiness to Man,Byfriendly Argumentsto winThe World from Slavery to Sin;For He, who all Things knows, well knew,That they to Duty are more true,Who from afilial Loveobey,And serve forGratitude, than theyWho from acoward Dread of LawOwe all theirVirtueto theirAwe;Who, tho’ they seem so true, and just,So strictly faithful to their Trust,Will, if you take theGallowsdown,Out-pilfer half theRoguesinTown).With saucy boldness will presumeTo pass th’ impenetrable gloom,And lift the Curtain which we seeIs drawn betwixt the World and Thee;Of nought but endless Torments speak,To frighten and appall the weak;Dwell on the horrid Theme with glee,And fain themselves wou’dHangmenbe;With so muchDreadtheirHearersfill,That they have neitherPow’r, norWill,Tho’Heav’n’s the Prize, to move a Hand,Butshudderingandtremblingstand.Quench the hot Flame, O God, that burns,AndPietytoPhrenzyturns!Let not thyholy Namebe madeACloakto hide apilf’ring Trade!Nor suffer that thysacred Word,Be turn’d toRhapsody absurd!Let it not serve, likeMagic Sticks,To prefacepious Jugglers’Tricks!Root, root fromEarth, these baneful weeds,That choakReligion’swholesome Seeds!Give them the headlong Winds to bear,And scatter in a desart Air!Grind them to Powder, that no moreThey sprout and grow as heretofore!Burn the rank stalks, and let the flameThy Garden’s hot luxuriance tame,Nor let it Flow’r, or Plant produce,But what yieldsOrnamentorUse!But soft—myMuse! thy Breath recall—Turn notReligion’s Milk to Gall!Let not thyZealwithin thee nurseAholy Rage, orpious Curse!Far other is theheav’nly Plan,Which theRedeemergave to Man,Who taught the World in Peace to live,And e’enour Enemiesforgive!Live then,ye Wretches! to declare,How longour Godwith Mencan bear!A living Monument to beOf theAlmighty’s Clemency!Who still is good, altho’ You preachYourselves almost ’boveMercy’s reach;And, tho’ his goodness You resist,Can even spare aMethodist.F I N I S.WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARKMEMORIAL LIBRARYUNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELESThe Augustan Reprint SocietyPUBLICATIONS IN PRINTThe Augustan Reprint SocietyPUBLICATIONS IN PRINT1948-194916.Henry Nevil Payne,The Fatal Jealousie(1673).17.Nicholas Rowe,Some Account of the Life of Mr. William Shakespear(1709).18.Anonymous, “Of Genius,” inThe Occasional Paper, Vol. III, No. 10 (1719),and Aaron Hill, Preface toThe Creation(1720).1949-195019.Susanna Centlivre,The Busie Body(1709).20.Lewis Theobald,Preface to the Works of Shakespeare(1734).22.Samuel Johnson,The Vanity of Human Wishes(1749), and twoRamblerpapers (1750).23.John Dryden,His Majesties Declaration Defended(1681).1951-195226.Charles Macklin,The Man of the World(1792).31.Thomas Gray,An Elegy Wrote in a Country Churchyard(1751), andTheEton College Manuscript.1952-195341.Bernard Mandeville,A Letter to Dion(1732).1962-196398.Selected Hymns Taken Out of Mr. Herbert’sTemple(1697).1964-1965109.Sir William Temple,An Essay Upon the Original and Nature of Government(1680).110.John Tutchin,Selected Poems(1685-1700).111.Anonymous,Political Justice(1736).112.Robert Dodsley,An Essay on Fable(1764).113.T. R.,An Essay Concerning Critical and Curious Learning(1698).114.Two Poems Against Pope: Leonard Welsted,One Epistle to Mr. A. Pope(1730), and Anonymous,The Blatant Beast(1742).1965-1966115.Daniel Defoe and others,Accounts of the Apparition of Mrs. Veal.116.Charles Macklin,The Covent Garden Theatre(1752).117.Sir Roger L’Estrange,Citt and Bumpkin(1680).118.Henry More,Enthusiasmus Triumphatus(1662).119.Thomas Traherne,Meditations on the Six Days of the Creation(1717).120.Bernard Mandeville,Aesop Dress’d or a Collection of Fables(1740).1966-1967123.Edmond Malone,Cursory Observations on the Poems Attributed toMr. Thomas Rowley(1782).124.Anonymous,The Female Wits(1704).125.Anonymous,The Scribleriad(1742). Lord Hervey,The DifferenceBetween Verbal and Practical Virtue(1742).1967-1968129.Lawrence Echard, Prefaces toTerence’s Comedies(1694) andPlautus’sComedies(1694).130.Henry More,Democritus Platonissans(1646).132.Walter Harte,An Essay on Satire, Particularly on the Dunciad(1730).1968-1969133.John Courtenay,A Poetical Review of the Literary and Moral Characterof the Late Samuel Johnson(1786).134.John Downes,Roscius Anglicanus(1708).135.Sir John Hill,Hypochondriasis, a Practical Treatise(1766).136.Thomas Sheridan,Discourse ... Being Introductory to His Course ofLectures on Elocution and the English Language(1759).137.Arthur Murphy,The Englishman From Paris(1736).1969-1970138.[Catherine Trotter],Olinda’s Adventures(1718).139.John Ogilvie,An Essay on the Lyric Poetry of the Ancients(1762).140.A Learned Dissertation on Dumpling(1726) andPudding Burnt to Potor a Compleat Key to the Dissertation on Dumpling(1727).141.Selections from Sir Roger L’Estrange’sObservator(1681-1687).142.Anthony Collins,A Discourse Concerning Ridicule and Irony in Writing(1729).143.A Letter From A Clergyman to His Friend, With An Account of theTravels of Captain Lemuel Gulliver(1726).144.The Art of Architecture, A Poem. In Imitation of Horace’s Art of Poetry(1742).1970-1971145-146.Thomas Shelton,A Tutor to Tachygraphy, or Short-writing(1642) andTachygraphy(1647).147-148.Deformities of Dr. Samuel Johnson(1782).149.Poeta de Tristibus: or, the Poet’s Complaint(1682).150.Gerard Langbaine,Momus Triumphans: or, the Plagiaries of the EnglishStage(1687).Publications of the first fifteen years of the Society (numbers 1-90) are available in paperbound units of six issues at $16.00 per unit, from the Kraus Reprint Company, 16 East 46th Street, New York, N.Y. 10017.Publications in print are available at the regular membership rate of $5.00 for individuals and $8.00 for institutions per year. Prices of single issues may be obtained upon request. Subsequent publications may be checked in the annual prospectus.The Augustan Reprint SocietyWilliam Andrews ClarkMemorial LibraryUNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES2520 Cimarron Street (at West Adams), Los Angeles, California 90018Make check or money order payable toTHE REGENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

This facsimile ofThe Methodist(1766) is reproduced from a copy [840. k. 10. (18.)] in the British Museum by kind permission of the Trustees.

signature of E Lloyd

Nothing, search all creation round,Nothing sofirmly goodis found,Whose substance, with such closeness knit,Corruption’sTouchwill not admit;But, spite of all incroaching stains,Its native purity retains:Whose texture will nor warp, nor fade,Though moths and weather shou’d invade,WhichTime’s sharp tooth cannot corrode,Proof againstAccidentandMode;And, maugre each assailing dart,Thrown by the hand of Force, or Art,Remains (let Fate do what it will)Simpleanduncorruptedstill.

Virtue, of constitution nice,Quickly degen’rates intoVice;Change but thePerson,Place, andTime,And what wasMeritturns toCrime.Wisdom, which men with so much pain,With so much weariness attain,May in a little moment quit,And abdicate the throne of Wit,And leave, a vacant seat, the brain,For Folly to usurp and reign.Should you but discompose the tide,On whichIdeaswont to ride,Fermentit with ayeasty Storm,Or with highFloods of Winedeform;Altho’Sir Oracleis he,Who is as wise, as wise can be,In one short minute we shall findThe wise man gone, a fool behind.Courage, that is all nerve and heart,That dares confront Death’s brandish’d dart,That dares to single Fight defyThe stoutest Hector of the sky,Whose mettle ne’er was known to slack,Nor wou’d on thunder turn his back;How small a matter may controul,And sooth the fury of his soul!Shou’d this intrepid Mars, his clayDilute with nerve-relaxing Tea,Thin broths, thin whey, or water-gruel,He is no longer fierce and cruel,But mild and gentle as a dove,TheHero’s melted down toLove.Thejuicessoften’d, (here we noteMore on thejuicesthan theCoatDepends, to make a valiant MarsRich in the heraldry of scars)TheManissoften’dtoo, and shewsNo fondness for a bloody nose.WhenGeorgy S—k——le shunn’d the Fray,He’d swill’d a little too much Tea.Chastitymelts like sun-kiss’d snow,When Lust’s hot wind begins to blow.Let but thathorrid Creature, Man,Breathe on a lady thro’ her fan,HerVirtuethaws, and by and byeWill of thefalling Sicknessdie.Lo!Beauty, still more transitory,Fades in the mid-day of its glory!ForNaturein her kindness swore,That she who kills, shall kill no more;And in pure mercy does eraseEach killing feature in the face;Plucks from the cheek the damask rose,E’en at the moment that it blows;Dims the bright lustre of those eyesTo which the Gods wou’d sacrifice;Dries the moist lip, and pales its hue,And brushes off its honied dew;Flattens the proudly swelling chest,Furrows the round elastic breast,And all the Loves that on it play’d,Are in a tomb of wrinkles laid;Recalls those charms, which she design’dToplease, and notbewitchMankind;But with too delicate a touch,Heightening theOrnamentstoo much,She finds her daughters can convertBlessings to curses, good to hurt,Proof of parental love to give,She blots them out that Man may live.

The hour will come (which let not meIndulgent Nature, live to see!)The hour will come, whenChloe’s formShall with its beauty feed the worm;That face where troops of Cupids throng,Whose charms first warm’d me into song,Shall wrinkle, wither, and decay,To Age, and to Disease, a prey!Chloe, in whom are so combin’dThe charms of body and of mind,As might to Earth elicitJove,Thinking his Heav’n well left for Love;Perfection as she is, the hourWill come, when she must feel the pow’rOfTime, and to his wither’d arms,Resign the rifling of her charms!Must veil her beauties in a cloud,A grave her bed, her robe a shroud!When all her glowing, vivid bloom,Must fade and wither in the tomb!When she who bears the ensigns now,Of Beauty’s Priestess on her brow,Shall to th’ abhorr’d embrace of DeathGive up the sweetness of her breath!When worms—but stop,Description, there—My heart cannot the picture bear—Sickens to think there is a day,WhenChloewill be made a preyTo Death, a piece-meal feast for himWith rav’nous jaw to tear each limb,And feature after feature eat,WhileBeautyonly serves forMeat—Wretched to know that this is true,Forbear t’ anticipate the view!Hence,Observation!—take your leave!—And kindly,Memory, deceive!And when some forty years are fled,And age has on her beauties fed,DearSelf-Delusion! lend thy skillTo fancy she isChloestill!

CitiesandEmpireswill decay,And toCorruptionfall a prey!Athens, of arts the native land,Cou’d not the stroke of Time withstand;There Serpents hiss, and ravens croak,WhereSocratesandPlatospoke.

ProudTroyherself (as all things must)Is crumbled into native dust;Is now a pasture, where the beastStrays for his vegetable feast,OldPriam’s royal palace nowMay couch the ox, the ass, the cow.—

Rome, city of imperial worth,The mighty mistress of the earth;Rome, that gave law to all the world,Is now to blank Destruction hurl’d!—Is now a sepulchre, a tomb,To tell the stranger, “Here wasRome.”—

View theWest Abbey! there we seeHow frail a thing is royalty!Where crowns and sceptres worms supply,And kings and queens, like lumber lie.TheTombs themselvesare worn away,And own the empire ofDecay,Mouldering like the royal dust,Which to preserve they have in trust.Nor has theMarblemore withstoodThe rage ofTime, thanFlesh and Blood!TheKing of Stoneis worn away,As well as is theKing of Clay—Here lies aKing without a Nose,And there aPrince without his Toes;Here on her back aRoyal FairLies, but a little worse for wear;Those lips, whose touch cou’d almost turnOld age to youth, and make it burn;To which young kings were proud to kneel,Are kick’d by every Schoolboy’s heel;Struck rudely by theShowman’s Wand,And crush’d by every callous Hand:Here apuissant MonarchfrownsIn menace high to rival Crowns;He threatens—but will do no harm—OurMonarchhas not left an arm.Thus allThingsfeel the gen’ral curse,That all Things must with Time grow worse.

But your Philosophers will say,Best Things grow worst when they decay.And many facts they have at handTo prove it, shou’d you proofs demand.As ifCorruptionshut her jaw,And scorn’d to cram her filthy maw,With aught but dainties rich and rare,And morsels of the choicest fare;As garden Birds are led to bite,Where’er the fairest fruits invite.IfPhœbus’rays too fiercely burn,Therichest Winestosourestturn:And they who livinghighly fed,Will breed aPestilence when dead.ThusAldermen, who at each Feast,Cram Tons of Spices from the East,Whose leading wish, and only plan,Is to learn how topickle Man;Who more than vie withÆgypt’s art,And make themselves ahuman Tart,Awalking Pastry-Shop, aGut,Shambles by Wholesale to inglut;And gorge each high-concocted MessThe art of Cookery can dress:Yet spite of all, whenDeaththinks fitTo take them off, lest t’ other bitShou’d burst theseliving Mummies, ableNeither to eat, nor quit the Table;Whether He Dropsy sends or Gout,To fetch them by the Shoulders out;Tho’ living they wereSaltandSpice,The carcase is not over nice;And all may find, who have aNose,Dead Aldermenare not a rose.

This reas’ning only serves to shew,The world call’dNatural, is so.But various instances proclaim,’Tis in themoral Worldthe same.ThusWoman, Nature’schastestwork,Lust-struck, out-paramours the Turk;Tho’gentleas the suckling Child,Enrag’d, than famish’d Wolves more wild;A more fell minister ofDeath—Rimegives the instance inMackbeth.

Reason herself, thatsober Dame,So mild, so temperate, so tame,Her head once turn’d, and giddy grown,Raving with phrenzy not her own,Plays madder pranks, more full of spleenThan any Hoyden of sixteen.Whether she burns withLoveorHate,Or grows withbaseless Hopeselate,WithDesperationis forlorn,Or with imagin’d horrors torn,If onAmbition’s swelling tide,Her crazy bark from side to side,Reels like a drunkard, tempest-tost,Or in theGulph of Prideis lost;Whate’er theleading Passionbe,That works the Soul’s anxiety,In eachExtremeth’ effect is bad,Sensegrows diseas’d, andReasonmad.

Why shou’d the Muse ofAngelstellTurn’d intoDevilswhen they fell?Why search the Chronicles ofHell,WhileEarthexamples it as well?Why talk ofSatan, while we seeEach day some new Apostacy?ToriestoWhigsconvert, andWhigs,Mere Ministerial Whirlegigs,Turn’d by the hand ofInt’rest, takeTheTory-part, for Lucre’s sake.PatriotsturnPlacemen, and supportAgainst their Country’s good the Court;Are bought withPensionsto retire,When drooping Kingdoms most requireTheir aid——Tho’ here the Muse wou’d fainExceptONE of thepension’d Train,(Onemeritorious ’bove the rest,Apatriot Minister, confest)Yet strictest honour can’t acquitThatPensioner, who once wasP——.Instance on instance to my viewCome rushing, of the changeling crew,That I could quarrel with my Nature,To think that Man is such a Creature—And are we all a fickle tribe,Venal to ev’ry golden bribe?Is there not one of honour found,In all the List ofPlacemenfound?Yes—onethere is, in perils tried,Yet never known tochange his Side,OrPrinciples—nor think it strange,He ne’er hadPrinciplesto change,And for aSide(the proof is new)He’snone, because thathe has two.Throw him fromParty’s giddy heights,ACat in Politicshe lightsEver upon his feet; his heartClings both toWhigandTory-part;Isthis, isthat, isboth, orneither,And still keeps shifting with the Weather.Who does not know thatT—s—d’s he,That reads theBook of Ministry?

Thus let us turn where’er we will,Each Machiavel’s aChangelingstill.But tho’ among allNature’s worksThe seed of foulCorruptionlurks,Yet no where is it known to bearSo vile a Crop on Ground so fair,As when uponReligion’s rootIt raises Diabolic Fruit.

When the Almighty Father’s LoveCall’d Things to Being, from aboveMillions of wingedBlessingsflew,Sent from his right hand, to bedewThe new-born Earth, and from their wingsShed good on allcreated Things.Precious and various tho’ the storeWhich down to Earth these Legates bore,ThatHeav’nly SparkweReason call,Was far the richest boon of all.

Bythiswe findth’ Almighty CauseFrom whom the World its Being draws;By whom Earth’s plenteous Table’s spread,At which each living Creature’s fed;Whogave theBreath of Life, and whenceThis fineVarietyofSense;Whose Handsunfold the azure sky,Sublimely pleasing tothe Eye;Whotun’d the feather’d Songster’s throat,Giving such softness to his note,To fill theEarwith dulcet sound,And pour sweet Music all around;Who on the teeming Branches plac’dSuch various Fruit to please theTaste;What bounteous Hand perfum’d theRose,And ev’ry scented Flow’r that blows,And wafts its fragrance thro’ the Vale,Courting theSmellin ev’ry gale,Towhomit is we owe so muchSubstantial pleasure in theTouch;Andwhence, superior to the whole,Those raptures that transportthe Soul;Thisgives our Gratitude to glowTo him, from whom such Blessings flow;This teaches Man hismoral Part,And graftsReligionin the Heart.

Glory to God, good Will to Man,And Peace on Earth, compos’d the plan,For whichReligionfirst came down,And brought to Earth aheav’nly Crown.Better her Purpose to complete,AndSatan’s Malice to defeat,A Troop ofholy Geniicame,Co-workers in the glorious Scheme.To each a scroll the Goddess gave,On which these lines She did engrave:“Go, teach the sons of Men to raiseTheir voice unto theirMaker’s praise.Go, call forthCharityto meetDistress that seeks her in the Street;Bid her the lame with Legs supply,And be unto the blind an Eye;A Mantle o’er the naked throw,And reach a healing hand to Woe;Visit the bed where Sickness lies,And wipe the tears from Orphans eyes;Bid her Affliction’s hour beguile,And teach the tear-worn Cheek to smile;Bid her send Comfort to expellGrief from the lonely Widow’s Cell;Make blunt the arrows of Mischance,And ope the eyes of Ignorance;To those lost Pilgrims point the Way,Who inSin’s tenfold Darkness stray,Recall them fromHell’s thickest night,And shewSalvation’s glorious Light;For thus the World that Peace shall find,For which it was byGoddesign’d.”—

Such the commandsReligiongave,When first she came the World to save,Such the attendants in her Train,When She began her holy Reign.And whenMessiah’s gracious LoveUrg’d him to leave theRealmsabove,Urg’d him to quit hisheav’nly Throne,His People’s Trespass to atone,And, tho’ so long they had withstoodHis Will, to wash them with his Blood;The great Command he did renew,Togive to God, and Man his due;Bade the brightSun of Faitharise,And open’d Heav’n to mortal eyes,LeavingReligionon the Earth,More fair and pure than at her Birth.—

How mutilated now and marr’d,Deform’d, distorted, mangled, scarr’d!Thro’modern ConventiclestraceThe Goddess, you’ll not know her face:Theholy Geniiall are fled,AndSpritesandDev’lscome in their stead.And now a counterfeiting DameUsurpsReligion’s sacred Name,But no more like inHeartorFace,ThanF—x’s deeds to deeds of Grace.Visit her at herT-tt—mSeat,You’ll find she is an errant Cheat.ForSatan, Man’s invet’rate foe,Whose greatest joy is human woe,Repining at the heav’nly Plan,That promis’d so much Good to Man,Us’d all his Malice, Wit, and Pow’r,The World’s great Blessings to devour.Well themalicious SpiritknewWhenceManhis chief resources drewOf Happiness, and saw confest,Where all was good,Religionbest;And at her unpolluted HeartHe aim’d his most envenom’d Dart.He knew the Interest ofHellCou’d never on theEarthgo well,Whilepure Religiondid maintainO’er Man a sanctimonious reign.With her he wag’d malicious War,He might, if not destroy her, marHer Face; might with false Lights misguide,And make her Combat on his side.Highly did hisAmbitionburnHeav’n’s Arms against itself to turn.Nor would hisMalicetriumph less,TodamnwhereGoddesign’d tobless.

For thisthe Fiendto Earth ascends,To try his Int’rest with his Friends.Long in his fiery Chariot hurl’d,He had explor’d the pendent World;Long had he search’d without avail,EachMeeting,Dungeon,Court, andJail,EachMart of Villainy, whereVicePresides, andVirtuebears no Price,WhereFraud,Hypocrisy, andLiesAre selling while the Devil buys.Long had he search’d, but could not findAnAgentsuited to his Mind,Who cou’d transact his Business well,And do on Earth the work of Hell;That he might at his leisure go,And manage his Affairs below.—

Tir’d and despairing of a FriendOn whom he safely might depend,AtT-tt—mhe alights from Air—Magus, thatSorcerer, was there.Pleas’dSatansomewhat nearer drew,Look’d thro’ him at a single view,Bless’d his good Luck, and grinn’d aghast—“’Tis well, for I have found at last,The Thing I long have sought, inThee,An Agent in Iniquity.Thus let me mark Thee for my own,And from henceforth forminebe known.”

Then with out-stretched claws his EyesHetwisteddiff’rent ways—theSkiesAre watch’d byone, and (strange to tell!)Theotheris the Guard ofHell.Then thus—“’Tis fit thy Eyes shou’d roll,Crossas the purpose of thy Soul,Fit that they look a diff’rent way,Like what Youdo, and what Yousay;ThyEye-ballsnow are pois’d and hung,As even as thyHeartandTongue—Prosper—tome, toHell(he cried)Be true, but false to all beside.Riches are mine—I will repayFor ev’ry Soul you lead astray—Give out thyself a Light to shewWhich way ’tis best to Heav’n to go;But lead the Pilgrims wrong, and shineAnIgnis fatuusof mine—Draw them thro’ bog, thro’ brake, thro’ mire,I’ll dry them at arousing Fire.”

Maguscomplacent smil’d—his EyesTwinkled with signs of Joy, one fliesUpward, and t’other down, like Scales,Where this ascends, when that prevails—Thenthricehe turn’d upon his heel,And swore Allegiance to theDe’el—

Right faithfully hisOathhe kept,And might each Night before he sleptBoast of his labours to maintain,And spread abroad hisMaster’s Reign;Might boast the magic of his RodTo whip away theLove of God,For all ofGodhe makes appearHas nought tolove, but all tofear.That debt, whichGratitudeeach dayPaying, wou’d still own much to pay;Instead ofDutyfreely paid,ATyrant’shard Exaction’s made.Fitted the simple to cajole,First of his Wits, and then his Soul,He urges fifty false Pretences,Preaching his Hearers from their Senses.He knows hisMaster’s Realm so well,His Sermons are aMap of Hell,AnOlliomade ofConflagration,OfGulphs of Brimstone, andDamnation,Eternal Torments,Furnace,Worm,Hell-Fire, aWhirlwind, and aStorm,WithMammon,Satan, andPerdition,AndBeelzebubto help the Dish on;BelialandLucifer, and allThenick-Nameswhichold Nickwe call—But he has ta’en especial care,To have norSensenorReasonthere.A thousand scorching Words beside,Over his tongue as glibly slide,Familiar as a glass of wine,Or a Tobacco-pipe on mine;That You wou’d swear he was compleater,ThanPowell, as aFire-Eater.

Virgins he will seduce astray,Only to shew the shortest WayToHeaven, and because it liesAbove theZodiacin the Skies,That theymay better see the Track,He lays them downupon their Back.Domestic Peace he can destroy,And the confusion view with Joy,Children from Parents he can draw,What’sConscience?—he is safe fromLaw—The closest Union can divide,Take Husbands from their Spouses’ side,But it turns out to better Use,Wives from their Husbands to seduce;And as their Journey liesup-Hill,Ev’ry Incumbrance were an Ill;And lest their Speed shou’d be withstood,He takes theirMoney—for their Good.

Such is the AgentSatanchose,Religion’s Progress to oppose—Too great the Task foronewas thought,Andunder-Agentsmust be sought—On this high Enterprize intent,A troop ofevil Spriteshe sent,Commission’d, wheresoe’er they foundHearts hollow, rotten, and unsound,Within those Breasts accurs’d to dwell,Teaching the Liturgy ofHell.Big with the Charge th’ infernal CrewTo their belov’d Appointment flew;With busy search thro’ ev’ry Class,Thro’ ev’ry Rank of Men they pass,In ev’ry Class of Men they findSomeHeartscorrupted to their Mind,Ev’ry Profession they explore,Ev’ry Profession gives them more;The higher Functions ransack’d, nowEach vulgar Trade, each sweaty BrowIs search’d, and in them all were found,Some hollow, rotten, and unsound.In each depraved Bosom dwellTheseSprites, nor miss their nativeHell.Hence ev’ry Blockhead, Knave, and Dunce,Start into Preachers all at once.Hence Ignorance of ev’ry size,Of ev’ry shape Wit can devise,Altho’ so dull it hardly knows,Which are its Fingers, which its Toes,Which is the left Hand, which the Right,When it is Day, or when ’tis Night,Shall yet pretend to keep the KeyOfGod’s dark Secrets, and displayHishidden Mysteries, as freeAs ifGod’sprivy CouncilHe,Shall to his Presence rush, and dareTo raise apious Riotthere.

Lawyers(a Commutation strange!)Coke LittletonforBiblechange;Quit their beloved wranglingHall,More loudly in aChurchto bawl:Statutes at largeare thrown aside,And now theTestament’s their guide;And full as fervent, on their Knees,ForHeav’nthey pray, as once forFees;Plaintiff,Defendant, andmy Lord,Are banish’d, and nowFaith’s the Word,OfBriefsno longer now they dream,Religionis the only Theme.ThePhysic-Tribetheir Art resign,And lose theQuackin theDivine;Galenlies on the Shelf unread,APray’r-Bookopen in its stead;Salvationnow is all theCant,Salvationis theonlyWant.“Throw Physic to the Dogs,” they cry,’Twill never bring you to the Sky.Of aNew-birththey prate, and prateWhileMidwifryis out of Date;Let Fevers, Agues, take their turn,To freeze the Patient, or to burn,In vain he seeks the Physic Tribe,NoRecipewill they prescribe,But what is sovereign to controulThe Maladies that hurt the Soul.And tho’ whileBody-quacks, withPillOrBolus, ’twas their Trade to kill,More miserably still, alack!For thediseased Soultheyquack.

TheSons of Warsometimes are knownTo fight with Weapons not their own,Ceasing theSword of Steelto wield,They takeReligion’sSword and Shield.

Ev’ryMechanicwill commenceOrator, withoutMoodorTense.PuddingisPuddingstill, they know,Whether it has a Plumb or no;So, tho’ the Preacher has no skill,ASermonis aSermonstill.

TheBricklay’rthrows hisTrowelby,And nowbuilds Mansions in the Sky;TheCobbler, touch’d withholy Pride,Flings hisold Shoes, andLastaside,And now devoutly sets aboutCobbling ofSoulsthatne’er wear out;TheBaker, now aPreachergrown,Finds Manlives not by Bread alone,And now his Customers he feedsWithPray’rs, withSermons,GroansandCreeds;TheTinman, mov’d by Warmth within,HammerstheGospel, just likeTin;Weavers inspir’dtheirShuttlesleave,Sermons, andflimsy Hymnsto weave;Barbersunreap’d will leave the Chin,To trim, and shave theMan within;TheWatermanforgets hisWherry,And opens acelestial Ferry;TheBrewer, bit by Phrenzy’s Grub,TheMashingfor thePreaching TubResigns,those Watersto explore,Which if You drink, youthirst no more;TheGard’ner, weary of his Trade,Tir’d of the Mattock, and the Spade,Chang’d toApollosin a Trice,WatersthePlants of Paradise;TheFishermenno longer setForFishthe Meshes of their Net,But catch, likePeter,Men of Sin,Forcatchingis totake them in.

Well had the wand’ring Spirits sped,And thro’ the World their Poison spread,Made Lodgments in each tainted Breast;And each infected Heart possess’d.

Thewayward Bus’nessbeing done,Satanto make his Choice begunOfunder-Ministers, to doWhatOnecou’d not be equal to.

Asecond Agent, like the first,Who onDæmoniac Milkwas nurst,HadMoorfieldstrusted to his Care,ForSatankeepsan Officethere.Leanis theSaint, andlank, to shewThatFlesh and Blood to Heav’n can’t go;His Hair likeCandleshangs, a signHow bright hisinward Candlesshine.

OfSatan’sAgentsthesethe Chief,A thousand others lend Relief,And take some labour off their Hands,Each as th’internal Spritecommands:But working with adiff’rent Spell,They lead by various Ways toHell.

Sickens the Soul? and is its stateWithSin’s Disease grown desperate?To divers Quacks you may apply,Andspecial Nostrumsof them buy.Tottenham’s the best accustom’d Place,ThereMagus squintsMen intoGrace.W-s—ysells Powders, Draughts, and Pills,Sov’reign against all sorts of Ills,Assurancecharms away the Fit,Or at least makes it intermit—M-d—nthe springs of Healthunlocks,And by his Preaching cures theP——R-m—neworks greater Wonders still,Pulls you byGravity up-Hill,And for whate’er you doamiss,Rewards you withcelestial Bliss;By yourbad DeedsyourFaithyou shew,’Tis butbelieve, andup You go.B—rr—sandW-r—rset up Shop,To sellReligion’sPill and Drop,They teach their Patients how to flyOnVoiceandActionto the Sky.One of theMagi of the East,Alittle perking, puppet-Priest,Has got theHarlequino-way,His Patients Heav’nward to convey;And their Salvation to advance,AJigwillat the Altar dance.

Such were thePlenipo’s inTown,Who serv’d theDiabolicCrown.Not far remov’d, afemale FriendGave Proofs, thatSatanmight dependOn her best Service, and support,For what serv’d him, to her was Sport.H——, cloy’d withcarnalBliss,Longing to taste howSpiritskiss,BidsChapelsfor herSaintsarise,Which are butBagniosin Disguise;Where She may suck herT——’s Breath,Expiring inseraphicDeath.

ThatSatanbetter might succeed,Ofother Agentshe had need,HisCountry-Int’restto support,WhileDoddwaspreachingto the Court.The Town was left, and now his FlightBore to theNorththe horridSprite;Now had he travers’d many a League,And felt, asSpiritsfeel, Fatigue,When, in a dark, romantic Wood,In which an antique Mansion stood,He spied, close to a Hovel-door,ASaintconversing with hisWhore.Double he seem’d, and worn with Age,Little adapted to engageInLove’s hot War, too dry his TrunkTo cope with a lascivious Punk;So humble too he seem’d, You’d swear,Humilityherself was there;So like aSawyertoo hebows,You’d think that he wasMeekness’Spouse;ButSatanread hisVisage-lines,And found some favourable Signs,That thismeek Saintmight,in the Dark,Make hisInfernalshipaClerk;Tho’ muffled inReligion’s CloakSo close, that it might almost choakAPharisee, it might be stillOnly aCloakto doff at Will;HisSpeechmight be an acted Part,A Language foreign to hisHeart.He knew, that tho’ upon hisTongue,Religion, a mereCant-word, hung,He might forget it in hisWork,And be atHearta veryTurk.

FinesseandTrickwou’d ne’er succeed,If Men wou’d only learn to read,To read the Lines ofNature’s Pen,Drawn in theCountenance of Men,Where Truth speaks out distinct and clear,If we had but the Trick to hear.

So far’d it withour Saint, while HeWou’d seem downrightHumility,Some honest Features cry’d aloud,“Our Master is of Spirit proud.”Pass him with Bonnet on, his LipWill hang as low as to his Hip;His bloated Eye its Venom darts,And from its gloomy Socket starts;And if theBody’s frame we scan,He cannot be anupright Man.And there are Proofs, from which we seeHisBodyand hisSoulagree.Altho’ he is as fond ofPray’rs,As Country Girls of Country Fairs;Yet shou’d he in the Church-yard spySometempting Wantonpassing by,E’en at the Moment that his KneeIs bent in Sign ofPiety,Quick hisDevotionleaves theHeart,And settles in someother Part;The Book ofPray’ris shut, andHeav’nFor the dear Charms ofCœliagiv’n.

Th’Arch-Fiendthissaintly Sinnerspied,And with malicious Pleasure ey’d,Well pleas’d to think that he had foundSuch aHell-Factorabove Ground;And thus began th’ infernal Sprite—“Libidinoso!if I’m right!Art thou that Son of mine on Earth,Whose deeds so loud proclaim thy Birth?Of whom so many Strumpets tellSuch Tales as get Thee Fame inHell?But Children know not whence they spring,Whether by Beggar got, or King;Yet I bycertain Markscan know,Whether Thou artmy Child, or no.Uncase—and let me see your Waist—For there are private Tokens plac’d,By whichmy ownI know—if thereNo secret Lines of mine appear,I claim Thee not—but if I seeThe twoInitialsFandP,Then art Thoumine—nay, never start—AndHeav’ncan claimin Theeno Part”—

And now his sapless Trunk he stripp’d,Like Culprits sentenc’d to be whipp’d,When lo! th’Initialsrose to View,And prov’d the Fiend’s Conjecture true.And all his Waist (detested Brand!)Was scribbled with theDev’l’s short Hand;Was mark’d withWhoredom,Lust, andLetchery,Malice,Hypocrisy, andTreachery,WithEnvy,Lying, andBetraying,WithFasting,Wenching,Fiddling,Praying,And all theCatalogue of SinDeeply engraven in his Skin—Pleas’d thegrim Pow’rsurvey’d, and smil’d,Embrac’d and said—“My darling Child,Blest was the Hour, and blest the Spot,Where Thou,my ’Bidin, wert begot.Know then, you’re not what You profess,Her Son, whose Lands you do possess;No—Thou’rtmy wayward Son, a WitchLitter’d thee in a loathsome Ditch;And (for all Creatures love the YoungWhich from their proper Loins are sprung)To this old Mansion thee convey’d,And in an Infant’s Cradle laid:And when theSorc’ressplac’d thee there,She stole away thenative Heir—Right well hast Thou, my Boy, repaidTheObligationson thee laid,And to thy Parents’ Int’rest trueHast prov’d thy Fortunes were thy due—Go on—and, if thou canst, do more(But ’t may not be) than heretofore—Keep the same Path You always trod,And be an Enemy toGod;Apply your Fortune to oppress,And harrassVirtuewith Distress;To hide your Blemishes use Paint,To screen theVillainplay theSaint;AffectReligion,Churchfrequent,Kneel,seemto pray, and keep upLent—Charitytoo must be display’d,ButCharity in Masquerade;GiveAlms—but not to those that need,But only for theGallows feed;Whene’er you meet apreaching Thief,Be prompt to reach him out Relief;IfLiars,Flatt’rers,Pandars,Pimps,Or any of my vagrant Imps,Approach Thee, to thy Mansion take,And give them Welcome for my Sake;Butneedy Meritmust not dareTo hope with thesethy Almsto share,Committhatto theBridewell-lash,But give it neitherFoodnorCash;Distinguish’d Honour shalt thou gainInPandæmonium, for thy Pain.But—one Word more—My Mind misgives,ThatVirtuea nearNeighbourlives—For in my search to find out Thee,I spied in this VicinityA Knot of Friends, where I cou’d traceHonouremblazon’d in their Face,These (for their Thoughts I plainly see)Bear no good Will to you or me;Foolishly honest, cheap they holdLibidinosoand his Gold,And will maintain, to Conscience true,Their Virtue, spite of Me and You.Altho’ your Influence be weak,Oppose them foropposing’ Sake,Do ev’ry little Act of Spite,And snarl, altho’ You cannot bite—Be faithful—there will come a Day,When I thy Services will pay,Will bring Thee to my Realm, and makeTheePilot of the burning Lake.”

He said—and quick as Thought withdrew,And to th’ infernal Regions flew;Blue sulph’rous streaks the Peasants scare,Marking his passage thro’ the Air—

Libidinosoleft behind,Began revolving in his MindHis Master’s Promises, and sigh’dTo have them fully ratified;Then homeward plodded, (but, be sure,Before he went, he kiss’d his Whore)Resolv’d, if possible, on moreAnd greater Evils than before.All vain was the Resolve—his CupOfWickednesswas quite fill’d up,And no Cup can another dropContain, when fill’d up to the Top.

Since all Improvement was forbid,What cou’d he do, but what he did?Nought he diminish’d of the Charge,But actsHell’s Minister at large.

APair of Adamantine Lungs,AThroat of Brass,Fame’s hundred Tongues,Time out of Mind have been confest,Byfifty Poets, at the least,Too little to countHybla’s Bees,TheLeaves that cloathe the Forest-Trees;TheSands that broider Neptune’s Side,OrWavesthat on his Bosom ride;TheGrainswhich richSiciliayields,TheBladeswith whichSpringrobes the Fields;TheStarswhich twinkling on the sightJove’sThresholdmake so glorious bright:Or (if we may annex to theseModern Impossibilities)To reckon up the sum ofKnavesThat crawl onEarth, or sleep inGraves,To count thePrudesthat crowd toPews,While theirThoughtsramble to theStews,Lords, whose sole Merit is theirPlace,Ladies, whose Worth’s apainted Face,Who findmy Lordhas lost hisForceInLove, and sue for aDivorce;Or to abridge, and enter downThe Names of all theFools in Town;Or number those wholive by Ink,Andwrite, altho’ they cannotthink;Critics, who judge, but cannot read,Andpraise, orcensure—as they’refee’d;Or counteach BardbySelfbetray’d,Who thought, when fondled byhis Maid,It wasMelpomenethat smil’d,And mark’d him for her fav’riteChild,But finds theHarvestof his Lines,Is tofast twiceforonce he dines.

As well theMusemight one of thesePoets’ ImpossibilitiesAssay to do, and speed as well,As if She should attempt to tellTheNamesandCharactersofallThat on the Name ofSatancall,That preach, and lie, and whine, and cant,Soldiers forHell’s Church Militant;And use the Head, the Heart, the Hand,To spreadits Doctrinesthro’ the Land.Arithmetic herselfwere dumb,If task’d with such an endless Sum;Nor wou’d theMuse, tho’ one more LineWou’d all the Host ofHellentwine,Bestow another drop of Ink,To map out aninfernal Sink—

Thou God of Truth and Love! excuseThehonest Angerof theMuse,Warm inthy Cause, while She wou’d prayThat Thou fromEarthwou’d’st sweep awaySuchrotten Saints, who wou’d concealTheirFraudbeneath the Name ofZeal!Who, mask’d withspurious Piety,Trample onReason,Truth, andThee,And, while their hot Career they run,Tread on theGospelof thy Son!Who, feigning to adore, make TheeATyrant-Godof Cruelty!As if thyright Handdid containOnly an Universe of Pain,HellandDamnationin thyLeft,Of ev’ry gracious Gift bereft,Hence raining Floods of Grief and Woes,On those that never were thy Foes,Ordaining Torments for the doomOf Infants, yet within the Womb:By fifty false Devices more,WhichReasonnever heard before,AndMethodistsalone cou’d dream,Thy boundlessGoodnessthey blaspheme!Who (tho’ ourSaviour’s gracious PlanWas to teach Happiness to Man,Byfriendly Argumentsto winThe World from Slavery to Sin;For He, who all Things knows, well knew,That they to Duty are more true,Who from afilial Loveobey,And serve forGratitude, than theyWho from acoward Dread of LawOwe all theirVirtueto theirAwe;Who, tho’ they seem so true, and just,So strictly faithful to their Trust,Will, if you take theGallowsdown,Out-pilfer half theRoguesinTown).With saucy boldness will presumeTo pass th’ impenetrable gloom,And lift the Curtain which we seeIs drawn betwixt the World and Thee;Of nought but endless Torments speak,To frighten and appall the weak;Dwell on the horrid Theme with glee,And fain themselves wou’dHangmenbe;With so muchDreadtheirHearersfill,That they have neitherPow’r, norWill,Tho’Heav’n’s the Prize, to move a Hand,Butshudderingandtremblingstand.

Quench the hot Flame, O God, that burns,AndPietytoPhrenzyturns!Let not thyholy Namebe madeACloakto hide apilf’ring Trade!Nor suffer that thysacred Word,Be turn’d toRhapsody absurd!Let it not serve, likeMagic Sticks,To prefacepious Jugglers’Tricks!Root, root fromEarth, these baneful weeds,That choakReligion’swholesome Seeds!Give them the headlong Winds to bear,And scatter in a desart Air!Grind them to Powder, that no moreThey sprout and grow as heretofore!Burn the rank stalks, and let the flameThy Garden’s hot luxuriance tame,Nor let it Flow’r, or Plant produce,But what yieldsOrnamentorUse!

But soft—myMuse! thy Breath recall—Turn notReligion’s Milk to Gall!Let not thyZealwithin thee nurseAholy Rage, orpious Curse!Far other is theheav’nly Plan,Which theRedeemergave to Man,Who taught the World in Peace to live,And e’enour Enemiesforgive!

Live then,ye Wretches! to declare,How longour Godwith Mencan bear!A living Monument to beOf theAlmighty’s Clemency!Who still is good, altho’ You preachYourselves almost ’boveMercy’s reach;And, tho’ his goodness You resist,Can even spare aMethodist.

F I N I S.

1948-194916.Henry Nevil Payne,The Fatal Jealousie(1673).17.Nicholas Rowe,Some Account of the Life of Mr. William Shakespear(1709).18.Anonymous, “Of Genius,” inThe Occasional Paper, Vol. III, No. 10 (1719),and Aaron Hill, Preface toThe Creation(1720).1949-195019.Susanna Centlivre,The Busie Body(1709).20.Lewis Theobald,Preface to the Works of Shakespeare(1734).22.Samuel Johnson,The Vanity of Human Wishes(1749), and twoRamblerpapers (1750).23.John Dryden,His Majesties Declaration Defended(1681).1951-195226.Charles Macklin,The Man of the World(1792).31.Thomas Gray,An Elegy Wrote in a Country Churchyard(1751), andTheEton College Manuscript.1952-195341.Bernard Mandeville,A Letter to Dion(1732).1962-196398.Selected Hymns Taken Out of Mr. Herbert’sTemple(1697).1964-1965109.Sir William Temple,An Essay Upon the Original and Nature of Government(1680).110.John Tutchin,Selected Poems(1685-1700).111.Anonymous,Political Justice(1736).112.Robert Dodsley,An Essay on Fable(1764).113.T. R.,An Essay Concerning Critical and Curious Learning(1698).114.Two Poems Against Pope: Leonard Welsted,One Epistle to Mr. A. Pope(1730), and Anonymous,The Blatant Beast(1742).1965-1966115.Daniel Defoe and others,Accounts of the Apparition of Mrs. Veal.116.Charles Macklin,The Covent Garden Theatre(1752).117.Sir Roger L’Estrange,Citt and Bumpkin(1680).118.Henry More,Enthusiasmus Triumphatus(1662).119.Thomas Traherne,Meditations on the Six Days of the Creation(1717).120.Bernard Mandeville,Aesop Dress’d or a Collection of Fables(1740).1966-1967123.Edmond Malone,Cursory Observations on the Poems Attributed toMr. Thomas Rowley(1782).124.Anonymous,The Female Wits(1704).125.Anonymous,The Scribleriad(1742). Lord Hervey,The DifferenceBetween Verbal and Practical Virtue(1742).1967-1968129.Lawrence Echard, Prefaces toTerence’s Comedies(1694) andPlautus’sComedies(1694).130.Henry More,Democritus Platonissans(1646).132.Walter Harte,An Essay on Satire, Particularly on the Dunciad(1730).1968-1969133.John Courtenay,A Poetical Review of the Literary and Moral Characterof the Late Samuel Johnson(1786).134.John Downes,Roscius Anglicanus(1708).135.Sir John Hill,Hypochondriasis, a Practical Treatise(1766).136.Thomas Sheridan,Discourse ... Being Introductory to His Course ofLectures on Elocution and the English Language(1759).137.Arthur Murphy,The Englishman From Paris(1736).1969-1970138.[Catherine Trotter],Olinda’s Adventures(1718).139.John Ogilvie,An Essay on the Lyric Poetry of the Ancients(1762).140.A Learned Dissertation on Dumpling(1726) andPudding Burnt to Potor a Compleat Key to the Dissertation on Dumpling(1727).141.Selections from Sir Roger L’Estrange’sObservator(1681-1687).142.Anthony Collins,A Discourse Concerning Ridicule and Irony in Writing(1729).143.A Letter From A Clergyman to His Friend, With An Account of theTravels of Captain Lemuel Gulliver(1726).144.The Art of Architecture, A Poem. In Imitation of Horace’s Art of Poetry(1742).1970-1971145-146.Thomas Shelton,A Tutor to Tachygraphy, or Short-writing(1642) andTachygraphy(1647).147-148.Deformities of Dr. Samuel Johnson(1782).149.Poeta de Tristibus: or, the Poet’s Complaint(1682).150.Gerard Langbaine,Momus Triumphans: or, the Plagiaries of the EnglishStage(1687).

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