Classic Poem

Spoken by Mr. W ILKS .

T O -night, ye Whigs and Tories both be safe.
Nor hope at one another's Cost to laugh,
We mean to souse old Satan and the Pope ;
They've no Relations here, nor Friends, we hope.
A Tool of theirs supplies the Comic Stage
With just Materials for Satyric Rage:
Nor think our Colors may too strongly paint
The stiff Non-Juring Separation Saint.
Good-breeding ne'er commands us to be civil
To those who give the Nation to the Devil;
Who at our surest, best Foundation strike,
And hate our Monarch and our Church alike;
Our Church — which aw'd with reverential Fear,
Scarcely the Muse presumes to mention here.
Long may She these her worst of Foes defy,
And lift her mitred Head triumphant to the Sky:
While theirs — — But Satire silently disdains
To name, what lives not, but in Madmen's Brains.
Like Bawds, each lurking Pastor seeks the Dark,
And fears the Justice's enquiring Clerk.
In close Back-rooms his routed Flocks he rallies,
And reigns the Patriarch of blind Lanes and Allies,
There safe, he lets his thund'ring Censures fly,
Unchristens, damns us, gives our Laws the Lie,
And excommunicates Three Stories high.
Why, since a Land of Liberty they hate,
Still will they linger in this Free-born State?
Here, ev'ry Hour, fresh, hateful, Objects rise,
Peace and Prosperity afflict their Eyes;
With Anguish, Prince, and People they survey,
Their just Obedience, and His righteous Sway.
Ship off, ye Slaves, and seek some Passive Land,
Where Tyrants after your own Hearts command.
To your Transalpine Master's Rule resort,
And fill an empty Abdicated Court:
Turn your Possessions here to ready Rhino,
And buy ye Lands and Lordships at Urbino .