Classic Poem

Thou mercenary renegade, thou slave,
Thou ever changeling, still to be a knave;
What sect, what error wilt thou next disgrace?
Thou art so lewd, so scandalously base,
That anti-Christian popery may be
Ashamed of such a proselyte as thee.
Not all the rancor and felonious spite
Which animates thy lumpish soul to write
Could have contrived a satire more severe,
Or more disgrace the cause thou would'st prefer.
Yet in thy favor this must be expressed:
It suits with thy poetic genius best.
There thou—
Thy mind disused to truth may'st entertain
With tales more monstrous, fanciful, and vain
Than e'en thy poetry could ever feign.
Or sing the lives of thy old fellow saints—
'Tis a large field and thy assistance wants.
There copy out new operas for the stage
And with their miracles divert the age:
Such is thy faith (if thou hast faith indeed,
For well we may distrust the poet's creed.)
Rebel to God, blasphemer to thy king,
Oh, tell whence could this strange compliance spring:
So may'st thou prove to thy new gods as true
As your old friend, th' devil, has been to you.
Still conscience and religion's the pretense,
But food and drink the metalogic sense;
'Twas int'rest reconciled thee to the cheat,
And vain ambition tempted thee to eat.
Oh, how persuasive is the want of bread!
Not reasons from strongbox more strongly plead.
A convert thou! Why, 'tis past all believing;
'Tis a damned scandal of thy foes' contriving,
A jest of that malicious monster, Fame:
The honest Layman's Faith is still the same.