Classic Poem

You Wit, in your Poetic Fury have,
Since you the Stage wou'd for the Pulpit leave;
Will of your Wit so give us better Proof,
Since you wou'd Starving Poetry leave off;
And a Fat Priest, of a Lean Poet now,
Wou'd (to the best Proof of your Reason) grow:
To show the World your Understanding more,
Damning Prophane Wits, who damn'd you before:
Your Sock and Buskin, you wou'd shake off quite,
Which ne'r keeps Poets dry-shod, or upright:
You'd leave-off your Poetic Sock, which does
Make Poor Wits go, most often without Shoes;
Whilst, in Canonical Galloshes, you,
To raise you higher, might the better go,
You'd Use of your Poetic Feet forbear,
That your Feet real Socks might have to wear,
Which have none now, but what Poetic are;
That something like a Shirt, you might have, you
A Surplice wou'd design to put on too;
You for Faith's Buckler, wou'd lay by your Sword,
Which less Protection does to Life afford;
The Stage so beggarly, to show your Wit,
Wou'd for the Profitable Pulpit quit;
And damn your Age, not to be damn'd by it.
You'd leave Prophane, and Witty Poetry,
To Lie o' God's-Name, more ingeniously;
Since Lying 'tis, for more Praise, with less Pain,
Most Witty Lying, as 'tis least in vain,
Most Honourable, as it brings most Gain;
So with more Wit and Honour, 'tis to Lie;
Giving, not Begging, Immortality,
By Lies, which make Hearers more true Believers;
Preachers, by Teaching Men Truth, their Deceivers:
Who, to be Coin-Receivers, turn Thanksgivers:
You'd leave-off, as a Poet, so to Sing,
To Sing Psalms, which more Praise wou'd to you bring;
And Hearers more provoke to Listening;
You'd leave Invoking so your Heathen Muse,
Substantial Help of Mother-Church to chuse,
Which, no Help does her Innocents refuse;
Which has Wit, for the most Prophane Thing held,
Because to Faith, against Sense, 'twill not yield,
Therefore has it out of the Church expell'd:
Which gives Praise to the Living, not the Dead,
Because it stands the Living in more stead;
Does Faith, in things incredible, forbid:
The Play-House, wisely, for the Church, you quit;
Where you may show more Faith, as less your Wit:
Where you wou'd be still, of an Audience, sure,
Which, on the Stage, you hardly cou'd procure;
Where Sinners, for their Sins, might Penance do,
And only, for their patient hearing you;
Who, by your Sermons, sooner wou'd, (of course)
Be sav'd, not as they better are, but worse;
Since, you'd hold forth, more to their Faith, than Sense,
Put them, for Laughing there, to less Expence,
Than if they were, a Play-house Audience;
So you more Hearers, wou'd together bring,
When as a Clerk, not Poet, you wou'd sing;
For Claps, need not invoke your Holy Pit,
Might clap on your own Cushion, your own Wit,
And not be thought a Fop, for doing it;
Church-Fictions too, will go off, with more ease,
Than the Prophane, in crouded Play-Houses,
Since Faith i'th' Church, is more, as Reason less;
Where oft it is, Religion, to be dull,
And to be Faithful, to be Fanciful;
Nay Nonsense, Sacred, in the Pulpit is,
Where Clergy-Fictions, Lay-men dare not hiss,
Railing, or Damning, dare not take amiss;
Nonsense is safe still, in the House of Pray'r,
Since there are none, who to refute it, dare,
But must have Faith in it, as Priests, they fear;
So Murtherers of Sense, have Asyl there,
As Murtherers of Men, of Old Times, had,
For Sins, where Laws were first against 'em made.
The Stage then now, to show your Wit, you leave,
Since there some Wit, a Holder-forth, must have;
Him, there, from Shame, and Damning too, to save;
By parting, with his Reason, and his Sense,
Believers, of their Faith, more to convince,
Since doubting Reason, is to Faith Offence;
So Damning here, as elsewhere, to prevent,
Thou shou'dst become, ev'n here, an Innocent,
And of thy Wit, Foe to thy Faith, repent;
Leave off thy tempting Wit, to Faith's Offence,
To make Man's Faith depend but on his Sense;
And much more, makes a Man fear Damning here,
For want of Wit, (than want of Faith,) elsewhere;
Thou must renounce that Faithless Wit of thine,
Thy Reason, up to Faith alone, resign,
Deny thy Sense, to prove a True Divine;
Must curs'd Temptations, of thy Heath'nish Muse,
(To get the Blessings of this Life,) refuse;
To make a Trade of Immortality,
Here, as hereafter, best to live thereby,
Must not as Poet, but as Parson ly;
Since Laic, as Clergy-lyers too, must live,
By th' Immortality, to Fools, they give;
For Preachers up of Virtue, to be known,
But more, for others Practice, than their own;
So that, the Business of both Trades, has been,
To make Divine Things of the worst of Men:
Who for their own Faults, others most condemn,
And praise God, only to get Man's Esteem;
Without Man's Gifts, the Gifts of God refuse,
Admir'd, and paid for Doctrine, not their use,
For Men's Faith, they confirm not, but abuse;
Who make Men, their vain Words, for God's esteem,
His Word believe, but as allow'd by them;
Their Hearers Faith, Devotion, to be true,
Not as they give God his, but them, their Due.