Classic Poem

A pleasant Passage often lurks
A midst the grave, in finish'd Works —
For Proof (a Proof is ne'er amiss)
Le Sieur Despreaux has left us this.

A canting Priest, of special Note
For leathern Lungs and brazen Throat,
Had got the Knack to draw Respect
From all of feeble Intellect;
And, without Learning, Wit, or Art,
To govern each old Woman's Heart.

From Time to Time his Audience grew —
From Time to Time their Tears he drew —
On no Occasion would he fail
To usher in a long Detail
Of all the Vices of the Time:
Thund'ring so loud against each Crime,
Not Peters, Pomfret, Mead , or Burgess ,
Were call'd more justly Boanerges .
'Twas once his Lot, not far from Court,
To preach before the better Sort —
Ev'n here the Church was much too straight —
Coach after Coach unloads its Freight.
Scarce any Preacher e'er beheld
A Place so large, so amply fill'd —
For (Spite of Piety and Sense,
And all the Charms of Eloquence)
The Man that makes the biggest Noise,
Most Hearers ev'ry where enjoys.

Think how our Doctor gaz'd around,
With Looks of Gravity profound —
He stroak'd his Face; he took his Text;
Made ev'ry Member unperplex'd;
Then all his Batteries apply'd
Against Mens Luxury and Pride —
In all their Forms he these engag'd,
But seem'd with Coaches most enrag'd —
Dress on Morality encroaches;
Yet Dress was not so bad as Coaches — —
A Coach , that easy Chair to Vice !
That Gew-gaw of the Vain and Nice !
To keep one was a mortal Sin !
And all were damn'd that rode therein !

Religious Heats too often make
An honest Christian's Mein'ry weak.
Our Priest, transported with his Theme,
And hurry'd on with Zeal extreme,
To his own Breech apply'd the Birch —
For, in the Body of the Church,
That very Person might be seen
With whom he thither coach'd had been —

How could the Gentleman forbear
To cough, and hem, and nod, and stare?
Still Master thou may'st cough and look —
Sir Crape persues the Theme he took.
An hundred Times he had it o'er — —
Friends, use those wicked Things no more!
To walk to Heav'n is better far
Than to be coach'd the L — d knows where —

The Sermon done, the Flock dismist,
With Benediction of the Priest,
The Coaches rattle to the Door,
The People enter as before —
Our Doctor's Friend steps boldly in,
Regardless of the new found Sin,
But resolute to play his Farce on
The formal hypocritic Parson .

'Tis well when Preachers Lives afford
A Testimony to the Word —
'Twas not so now — our Priest forgot
The Doctrine he that Moment taught —
Again the outward Man prevails,
Again he confident assails
Sans Ceremony , at a Venture,
The gilded Vehicle to enter —
When looking sted fast in his Face,
His Friend cries, What's your Will ? — My Place.
Your Place, d'ye say? why what the Devil,
Would you commit this dreadful Evil?
No Doctor, prithee walk a Foot —
Coachman drive on — He shall not do't. —

What Use our Author makes of this,
You, I, or any one may guess —
I'd just inform you by the Way,
The Story's in L' Art de precher .
What Doctrines best the Pulpit fit,
What Manners make the Priest complete,
It teaches better, at one View,
Than half a hundred Rules can do —

To thee this moral Tale is sent,
O B — lb — n , with no ill Intent.
Tho' thy Abilities we grant,
A just Decorum thou may'st want.
O like thy Genius were thy Life!
Were not thy Words and Deeds at strife!
O in the Wit did Friendship shine!
And Honour finish the Divine!

This short, this just Reproof receive,
(This short Reproof is all I give — )
Accept the Love, nor slight the Truth,
Tho' from an unexperienc'd Youth — —
The Muses Voice is always free,
And I, unlearn'd , may Sing to thee. —