Canto I: The Town-Meeting, A.M.

WHEN Yankies, skill'd in martial rule,
First put the British troops to school;
Instructed them in warlike trade,
And new manoeuvres of parade;
The true war-dance of Yankey-reels,
And manual exercise of heels;
Made them give up, like saints complete,
The arm of flesh, and trust the feet,
And work, like Christians undissembling,
Salvation out, by fear and trembling;
Taught Percy fashionable races,
And modern modes of Chevy-chases:
From Boston, in his best array,
Great 'Squire, M'Fingal, took his way,
And, grac'd with ensigns of renown,
Steer'd homeward to his native town.
His high descent our herald, trace
To Ossian's famed Fingalian race;
For tho' their name some part may lack.
Old Fingal spelt it with a Mac;
Which great M'Pherson, with submission,
We hope will add the next edition.
His fathers flourish'd in the Highlands
Of Scotia's fog-benighted islands;
Whence gain'd our 'Squire two gifts by right,
Rebellion and the Second-sight.
Of these the first, in ancient days,
Had gain'd the noblest palms of praise,
'Gainst Kings stood forth, and many a crown'd head
With terror its might confounded;
Till rose a King with potent charm
His foes by goodness to disarm;
Whom ev'ry Scot and Jacobite
Strait fell in love with—at first sight;
Whose gracious speech, with aid of pensions,
Hush'd down all murmers of dissentions,
And with the sound of potent metal,
Brought all their blust'ring swarms to settle;
Who rain'd his ministerial mannas,
Till loud Sedition sung Hosannas;
The good Lords-Bishops and the Kirk
United in the public-work;
Rebellion from the northern regions,
With Bute and Mansfield swore allegiance,
And all combin'd to raze as nuisance,
Of church and state, the constitutions;
Pull down the empire on whose ruins
They meant to edify their new ones;
Enslave the Amer'can wildernesses,
And tear the provinces in pieces.
For these our 'Squire, among the valant'st,
Employ'd his time and tools and talents;
And in their cause, with manly zeal,
Us'd his first virtue to rebel;
And sound this new rebellion pleasing
As his old king destroying treason.
Nor less avail'd his optic sleight,
And Scotish gift of second-sight.
No ancient sybil, fam'd in rhyme,
Saw deeper in the womb of time;
No block in old Dodona's grove,
Could ever more orac'lar prove.
Nor only saw he all that was,
But much that never came to pass;
Whereby all Prophets far out-went he,
Tho' former days produc'd a plenty:
For any man with half an eye,
What stands before him may espy;
But optics sharp it needs, I ween,
To see what is not to be seen.
As in the days of ancient fame
Prophets and poets were the same,
And all the praise that poets gain
Is but for what th' invent and feign:
So gain'd our 'Squire his fame by seeing
Such things as never would have being.
Whence he for oracles was grown
The very tripod of his town.
Gazettes no sooner rose a lye in,
But strait he fell to prophesying;
Made dreadful slaughter in his course,
O'erthrew provincials, foot and horse;
Brought armies o'er by sudden pressings,
Of Hanoverians, Swiss and Hessians;
Feasted with blood his Scotish clan,
And hang'd all rebels to a man;
Divided their estates and pelf,
And took a goodly share himself.
All this, with spirit energetic,
He did by second-sight prophetic.
Thus stor'd with intellectual riches,
Skill'd was our 'Squire in making speeches,
Where strength of brains united centers
With strength of lungs surpassing Stentor's.
But as some muskets so contrive it,
As oft to miss the mark they drive at,
And tho' well aim'd at duck or plover,
Bear wide, and kick their owners over:
So far'd our 'Squire, whose reas'ning toil
Would often on himself recoil,
And so much injur'd more his side,
The stronger arg'ments he apply'd;
As old war elephants, dismay'd,
Trode down the troops they came to aid,
And hurt their own side more in battle
Than less and ordinary cattle.
Yet at town-meetings ev'ry chief
Pinn'd faith on great M'Fingal's sleeve,
And, as he motioned all by rote
Rais'd sympathetic hands to vote.
The town, our Hero's scene of action,
Had long been torn by feuds of faction;
And as each party's strength prevails,
It turn'd up diff'rent heads or tails;
With constant ratt'ling, in a trice
Show'd various sides, as oft as dice:
As that fam'd weaver, wife t'Ulysses,
By night each day's-work pick'd in pieces;
And tho' she stoutly did bestir her,
Its finishing was ne'er the nearer:
So did this town with stedfast zeal
Weave cob-webs for the public weal,
Which when completed, or before,
A second vote in pieces tore.
They met, made speeches full long-winded,
Resolv'd, protested, and rescinded;
Addresses sign'd, then chose Committees,
To stop all drinking of -teas ;
With winds of doctrine veer'd about,
And turn'd all Whig-Committees out.
Meanwhile our Hero, as their head,
In pomp the tory faction led,
Still following, as the 'Squire should please,
Successive on, like files of geese.
And now the town was summon'd, greeting,
To grand parading of town-meeting;
A show, that strangers might appall,
As Rome's grave senate did the Gaul.
High o'er the rout, on pulpit-stairs ,
Like den of thieves in house of pray'rs
(That house, which loth a rule to break,
Serv'd Heav'n but one day in the week,
Open the rest for all supplies
Of news and politics and lies,)
ood forth the constable, and bore
His staff, like Merc'ry's wand of yore,
Wav'd potent round, the peace to keep,
As that laid dead men's souls to sleep.
Above, and near th' Hermetic staff,
The moderator's upper half,
In grandeur o'er the cushion bow'd,
Like Sol half-seen behind a cloud.
Beneath stood voters of all colours,
Whigs, tories, orators, and bawlers.
With ev'ry tongue in either faction,
Prepar'd like minute-men, for action;
Where truth and falsehood, wrong and right,
Draw all their legions out to fight;
With equal uproar, scarcely rave
Opposing winds in Aeolus' cave;
Such Dialogues, with earnest face,
Held never Balaam with his ass.
With daring zeal and courage blest
Honorius first the crowd address'd;
When now our 'Squire, returning late,
Arriv'd to aid the grand debate,
With strange sour faces sat him down,
While thus the orator went on:
"—For ages blest, thus Britain rose,
The terror of encircling foes;
Her heroes rul'd the bloody plain;
Her conqu'ring standard aw'd the main;
The diff'rent palms her triumphs grace,
Of arms in war, of arts in peace:
Unharrass'd by maternal care,
Each rising province flourish'd fair;
Whose various wealth with lib'ral hand,
By far o'er-paid the parent-land.
But tho' so bright her sun might shine,
'Twas quickly hasting to decline,
With feeble rays, too weak t' assuage,
The damps, that chill the eve of age."
"For states, like men, are doom'd as well
Th' infirmities of age to feel;
And from their different forms of empire,
Are seiz'd with every deep distemper.
Some states high fevers have made head in,
Which nought could cure but copious bleeding;
While others have grown dull and dozy,
Or fix'd in helpless idiocy;
Or turn'd demoniacs to belabour
Each peaceful habitant and neighbor;
Or vex'd with hypocondriac fits,
Have broke their strength and lost their wits."
"Thus now while hoary years prevail,
Good Mother Britain seem'd to fail;
Her back bent, crippled with the weight
Of age and debts and cares of state:
For debts she ow'd, and those so large
That twice her wealth could not discharge;
And now 'twas thought so high they'd grown,
She'd break, and come upon the town;
Her arms, of nations once the dread,
She scarce could lift above her head;
Her deafen'd ears ('twas all their hope)
The final trump perhaps might ope,
So long they'd been in stupid mood,
Shut to the hearing of all good;
Grim Death had put her in his scroll,
Down on to the execution roll;
And Gallic crows, as she grew weaker,
Began to whet their beaks to pick her.
And now, her pow'rs decaying fast,
Her grand climact'ric had she past,
And just like all old women else,
Fell in the vapours much by spells.
Strange whimsies on her fancy struck,
And gave her brain a dismal shock;
Her mem'ry fails, her judgment ends;
She quite forgot her nearest friends;
Lost all her former sense and knowledge,
And fitted fast for Beth'lem college:
Of all the pow'rs she once retain'd,
Conceit and pride alone remain'd.
As eve when falling was so modest
To fancy she should grow a goddess;
As madmen, straw who long have slept on,
Will stile them, Jupiter, or Neptune:
So Britain, 'midst her airs so slighty,
Now took a whim to be almighty;
Urg'd on to desp'rate heights of frenzy,
Affirm'd her own Omnipotency;
Would rather ruin all her race,
Than 'bate Supremacy an ace;
Assum'd all rights divine, as grown
The church's head, like good pope Joan:
Swore all the world should bow and skip
To her almighty Goodyship;
Anath'matiz'd each unbeliever,
And vow'd to live and rule for ever.
Her servants humor'd every whim,
And own'd at once, her power supreme,
Her follies pleas'd in all their stages,
For sake of legacies and wages;
In Stephen's Chappel then in state too
Set up her Golden calf to pray to,
Proclaim'd its pow'r and right divine,
And call'd for worship at its shrine,
And for poor Heretics to burn us
Bade North prepare his fiery furnace;
Struck bargains with the Romish churches
Infallibility to purchase;
Set wide for Popery the door,
Made friends with Babel's scarlet whore,
Join'd both the matrons firm in clan;
No sisters made a better span.
No wonder then, ere this was over,
That she should make her children suffer,
She first without pretence of reason,
Claim'd right whate'er we had to seize on;
And with determin'd resolution,
To put her claims, in execution,
Sent fire and sword, and call'd it, Lenity,
Starv'd us, and christen'd it, Humanity.
For she, her case grown desperater,
Mistook the plainest things in nature;
Had lost all use of eyes or wits;
Took slav'ry for the Bill of Rights;
Trembled at whigs and deem'd them foes,
And stopp'd at loyalty her nose;
Stil'd her own children, brats and caitiffs,
And knew not us from th' Indian natives."
"What tho' with supplicating prayer
We begg'd our lives and goods she'd spare;
Not vainer vows, with sillier call,
Elijah's prophets rais'd to Baal;
A worshipp'd stock, of god, or goddess,
Had better heard and understood us.
So once Egyptians at the Nile
Ador'd their guardian Crocodile,
Who heard them first with kindest ear,
And ate them to reward their pray'r;
And could he talk, as kings can do,
Had made as gracious speeches too."
"Thus spite of pray'rs her schemes pursuing,
She still went on to work our ruin;
Annull'd our charters of releases,
And tore our title-deeds in pieces;
Then sign'd her warrants of ejection,
And gallows rais'd to stretch our necks on:
And on these errands sent in rage,
Her bailiff, and her hangman, Gage,
And at his heels, like dogs to bait us,
Dispatch'd her Posse Comitatus."
"No state e'er chose a fitter person,
To carry such a silly farce on.
As Heathen gods in ancient days
Receiv'd at second-hand their praise,
Stood imag'd forth in stones and stocks,
And deified in barber's blocks;
So Gage was chose to represent
Th' omnipotence of parliament.
And as old heroes gain'd, by shifts,
From gods, as poets tell, their gifts,
Our Gen'ral, as his actions show
Gain'd like assistance from below,
By Satan grac'd with full supplies,
From all his magazine of lies.
Yet could his practice ne'er impart
The wit, to tell a lie with art.
Those lies alone are formidable,
Where artful truth is mixt with fable;
But Gage has bungled oft so vilely,
No soul could credit lies so silly;
Outwent all faith, and stretch'd beyond
Credulity's extremest end.
Whence plain it seems, tho' Satan once
O'erlook'd with scorn each brainless dunce,
And blund'ring brutes in Eden shunning,
Chose out the serpent for his cunning;
Of late he is not half so nice,
Nor pick'd assistants, 'cause they're wise.
For had he stood upon perfection,
His present friends had lost th' election,
And far'd as hard in the proceeding,
As owls and asses did in ."
"Yet fools are often dang'rous enemies,
As meanest reptiles are most venomous;
Nor e'er could Gage, by craft or prowess,
Have done a whit more mischief to us,
Since he began th' unnatural war,
The work his masters sent him for."
"And are there in this free-born land
Among ourselves, a venal band,
A dastard race, who long have sold
Their souls and consciences for gold;
Who wish to stab their country's vitals,
If they might heir surviving titles;
With joy behold our mischief brewing,
Insult and triumph in our ruin?
Priests, who if Satan should sit down
To make a Bible of his own,
Would gladly for the sake of mitres,
Turn his inspir'd and sacred writers;
Lawyers, who should he wish to prove,
His title t' his old seat above,
Would, if his cause he'd give'em fees in.
Bring writs of Entry sur dissesin,
Plead for him boldly at the session,
And hope to put him in possession;
Merchants, who for his kindly aid,
Would make him partner in their trade,
Hang out their signs with goodly show,
Inscrib'd with "Belzebub and Co."
And judges who would list his pages,
For proper liveries and wages,
And who, as humbly cringe and bow,
To all his mortal servants now.
There are, and shame with pointing gestures,
Marks out th' Addressers and Protesters:
Whom following down the stream of Fate,
Contempts ineffable await,
And public infamy forlorn,
Dread hate and everlasting scorn."
As thus he spake, our 'Squire M'Fingal
Gave to his partizans a signal.
Not quicker roll'd the waves to land,
When Moses wav'd his potent wand,
Nor with more uproar, than the Tories
Set up a gen'ral rout in chorus;
Laugh'd, hiss'd, hem'd, murmur'd, groan'd,
Honorius now could scarce be heard
Our Muse amid th' increasing roar,
Could not distinguish one word more:
Tho' she sat by, in firm record
To take in short hand ev'ry word;
As ancient Muses wont, to whom
Old bards for depositions come;
Who must have writ 'em; for how else
Could they each speech verbatim tell's?
And tho' some readers of romances
Are apt to strain their tortur'd fances,
And doubt when lovers all alone
Their sad soliloquies do groan,
Grieve many a page with no one near 'em,
And naught but rocks and groves to hear 'em,
What sprite infernal could have tattled
And told the authors all they prattled;
Whence some weak minds have made objection,
That what they scribbled must be fiction;
'Tis false, for while the lovers spoke,
The Muse was by with table book;
And, lest some blunder might ensue,
Echo stool clerk, and kept the cue.
And tho' the speech ben't worth a groat,
As usual, 'tisn't the author's fault,
But error merely of the prater,
Who should have talk'd to th' purpose better;
Which full excuse, my critic-brothers,
May help me out as well as others;
And 'tis design'd, tho' here it lurk,
To serve as preface to this work.
So let it be—for now our 'Squire
No longer could contain his ire;
And rising 'midst applauding Tories,
Thus vented wrath upon Honorius.
Quoth he, "'Tis wond'rous what strange stuff
Your Whigs-heads are compounded of;
Which force of logic cannot pierce
Nor syllogistic carte & tierce,
Nor weight of scripture or of reason,
Suffice to make the least impression.
Not heeding what ye rais'd contest on,
Ye prate, and beg or steal the question;
And when your boasted arguings fail,
Strait leave all reas'ning off, to rail.
Have not our High-Church Clergy made it
Appear from scriptures, which ye credit,
That right divine from heaven, was lent,
To kings, that is, the Parliament,
Their subjects to oppress and teaze,
And serve the Devil when they please?
Did they not write, and pray, and preach,
And torture all the parts of speech;
About Rebellion make a pother,
From one end of the land to th' other?
And yet gain'd fewer pros'lyte Whigs,
Than old St. Anth'ny 'mongst the pigs;
And chang'd not half so many vicious
As Austin, when he preach'd to fishes;
Who throng'd to hear, the legend tells,
Were edified and wagg'd their tails;
But scarce you'd prove it, if you tried,
That e'er one whig was edified.
Have ye not heard from Parson Walter
Much dire presage of many a halter?
What warnings had ye of your duty
From our old Rev'rend Sam. Auchmuty?
From priests of all degrees and metres,
T' our fag-end man poor Person Peters?
Have not our Cooper and our Seabury
Sung hymns, like Barak and old Deborah;
Prov'd all intrigues to set you free,
Rebellion 'gainst the pow'rs that be;
Brought over many a scripture text
That us'd to wink at rebel sects;
Coax'd wayward ones to favor regents,
Or paraphras'd them to obedience;
Prov'd ev'ry king, ev'n those confest
Horns of th' Apocalyptic beast,
And sprouting from its noddles seven,
Ordain'd, as bishops are, by Heaven,
(For reasons sim'lar we are told,
That Tophet was ordain'd of old;)
By this lay-ordination valid
Becomes all sanctified and hallow'd,
Takes patent out when Heav'n has sign'd it,
And starts up strait the Lord's anointed?
Like extreme unction, that can cleanse
Each penitent from deadly sins,
Make them run glib, when oil'd by priest,
The heavenly read like wheels new greas'd,
Serve them like shoeball, for defences
'Gainst wear and tear of consciences:
So king's anointment cleans betimes,
Like fuller's earth, all spots of crimes;
For future knav'ries gives commissions,
Like Papists sinning under licence.
For heaven ordain'd the origin,
Divines declare, of pain and sin;
Prove such great good they both have done us,
Kind mercy 'twas they came upon us:
For without pain and sin and folly
Man ne'er were blest, or wise, or holy;
And we should thank the Lord, 'tis so,
As authors grave wrote long ago.
Now Heav'n its issues never brings
Without the means, and these are kings;
And he who blames when they announce ills,
Would counteract the eternal counsels.
As when the Jews, a murm'ring race,
By constant grumblings fell from grace,
Heav'n taught them first to know their distance
By famine, slav'ry, and Philistines;
When these could no repentance bring,
In wrath it sent them last a king,
So nineteen, 'tis believ'd, in twenty
Of modern kings for plagues are sent ye;
Nor can your cavillers pretend,
But that they answer well their end.
'Tis yours to yield to their command,
As rods in Providence's hand;
And if it means to send you pain,
You turn your noses up in vain:
Your only way's in peace to bear it,
And make necessity a merit.
Hence sure perdition must await
The man who rises 'gainst the state,
Who meets at once the damning sentence,
Without one loop-hole for repentance;
E'en tho' he gain'd the royal see,
And rank among the pow'rs that be:
For hell is theirs, the Scripture shows,
Whoe'er the pow'rs that be oppose,
And all those pow'rs (I am clear that 'tis so)
Are damn'd forever, ex officio."
"Thus far our Clergy; but 'tis true,
We lack'd not earthly reas'ners too.
Had I the Poet's brazen lungs
As sound-board to his hundred tongues,
I could not half the scribblers muster
That swarm'd round Rivington in cluster;
Assemblies, Councilmen, forsooth;
Brush, Cooper, Wilkins, Chandler, Booth,
Yet all their arguments and sap'ence,
You did not value at three half-pence.
Did not our Massachusettensis
For your conviction strain his senses?
Scrawl every moment he could spare,
From cards and barbers and the fair;
Show clear as sun in noon-day heavens,
You did not feel a single grievance;
Demonstrate all your opposition
Sprung from the eggs of foul sedition;
Swear he had seen the nest she laid in,
And knew how long she had been sitting;
Could tell exact what strength of heat is
Requir'd to hatch her out Committees;
What shapes they take, and how much longer's
The space before they grow t' a Congress?
New white-wash'd Hutchinson, and varnish'd
Our Gage who'd got a little tarnish'd;
Made 'em new masks, in time no doubt,
For Hutchinson's was quite worn out;
And while he muddled all his head,
You did not heed a word he said.
Did not our grave Judge Sewall hit
The summit of news paper wit?
Fill'd every leaf of ev'ry paper
Of Mills, and Hicks, and Mother Draper:
Drew proclamations, works of toil,
In true sublime, of scare-crow style;
Wrote farces too, 'gainst Sons of Freedom,
All for your good, and none would read 'em;
Denounc'd damnation on their frenzy,
Who died in Whig-impenitency;
Affirm'd that Heav'n would lend us aid,
As all our Tory writers said;
And calculated so its kindness,
He told the moment when it join'd us.
"'Twas then belike, Honorius cried,
When you the public fast defied,
Refus'd to Heav'n to raise a prayer.
Because you'd no connections there:
And since with rev'rend hearts and faces,
To Governors you'd made addresses,
In them who made you Tories, seeing
You liv'd and mov'd and had your being;
Your humble vows you would not breathe
To pow'rs you'd no acquaintance with."
"As for your fasts, replied our 'Squire,
What circumstance could fasts require?
We kept them not, but 'twas no crime;
We held them merely loss of time.
For what advantage firm and lasting,
Pray, did you ever get by fasting?
And what the gains that can arise
From vows and off'rings to the skies;
Will Heav'n reward with posts and fees,
Or send us Tea, as Consignees,
Give pensions, sal'ries, places, bribes,
Or chuse us judges, clerks, or scribes,
Has it commissions in its gift,
Or cash to serve us at a lift?
Are acts of Parliament there made,
To carry on the Placeman's trade?
Or has it pass'd a single bill
To let us plunder whom we will?
And look our list of Placemen all over;
Did Heav'n appoint our chief judge Oliver,
Fill that high bench with ignoramus;
Or has its councils by mandamus?
Who made that wit of water gruel,
A Judge of Admiralty, Sewall?
And were they not mere earthly struggles,
That rais'd up Murray, say, and Ruggles?
Did Heav'n send down, our pains to med'cine,
That old simplicity of Edson;
Or by election pick out from us,
That Marshfield blund'rer Nat. Ray Thomas:
Or had it any hand in serving
A Loring' Pepp'rell, Browne, or Erving?"
"Yet we've some saints, the very thing,
We'll put against the best you'll bring.
For, can the strongest fancy paint
Than Hutchinson a greater saint?
Was there a parson us'd to pray
At times more reg'lar, twice a day;
As folks exact have dinners got,
Whether they've apetites or not?
Was there a zealot more alarming
'Gainst puplic vice to hold forth sermon,
Or fix'd at church, whose inward motion
Roll'd up his eyes with more devotion?
What Puritan could ever pray
In Godlier tone, than Treas'rer Gray,
Or at town-meetings speechify'ng,
Could utter more melodious whine,
And shut his eyes and vent his moan,
Like owl afflicted in the sun?
Who once sent home his canting rival,
Lord Dartmouth's self, might out-be-drivel."
"Have you forgot, Honorius cried,
How your prime saint the truth defied ,
Affirm'd he never wrote a line,
Your charter'd rights to undermine;
When his own letters then were by,
That prov'd his message all a lie?
How many promises he seal'd
To get the oppressive acts repeal'd;
Yet once arriv'd on England's shore,
Set on the Premier to pass no more?
But these are no defects, we grant,
In a right loyal Tory saint,
Whose Godlike virtues must with ease
Atone such venal crimes as these:
Or ye perhaps in Scripture spy
A new Commandment, "Thou shalt lie;"
And if't be so (as who can tell?)
There's no one sure ye keep so well."
"Quoth he, For lies and promise breaking
Ye need not be in such a taking,
For lying is, we know and teach,
The highest privilege of speech;
The universal Magna Charta,
To which all human race is party;
Whence children first, as David says,
Lay claim to 't in their earliest days;
The only stratagem in war
Our Gen'rals have occasion for;
The only freedom of the press
Our politicians need in peace:
And 'tis a shame you wish t' abridge us
Of these our darling privileges.
Thank Heav'n, your shot have miss'd their aim,
For lying is no sin, or shame."
"As men last wills may change again,
Tho' drawn in name of God, Amen;
Besure they must have much the more,
O'er promises as great a pow'r,
Which, made in haste, with small inspection,
So much the more will need correction;
And when they've careless spoke, or penn'd 'em,
Have right to look 'em o'er and mend 'em;
Revise their vows, or change the text,
By way of codicil annex'd,
Turn out a promise, that was base,
And put a better in its place.
So Gage, of late agreed, you know,
To let the Boston people go;
Yet when he saw, 'gainst troops that brav'd him,
They were the only guards that sav'd him,
Kept off that Satan of a Putnam,
From breaking in to maul and mutt'n him:
He'd too much wit such leagues t' observe,
And shut them in again to starve."
"So Moses writes, when female Jews
Made oaths and vows unfit for use,
Their parents then might set them free
From that consc'entious tyranny:
And shall men feel that spir'tual bondage
Forever, when they grow beyond age;
Nor have pow'r their own oaths to change?
I think the tale were very strange.
Shall vows but bind the stout and strong,
And let go women weak and young,
As nets enclose the larger crew,
And let the smaller fry creep thro'?
Besides, the Whigs have all been set on,
The Tories to affright and threaten,
Till Gage amidst his trembling fits,
Has hardly kept him in his wits;
And tho' he speak with art and finesse,
'Tis said beneath duress per minas.
For we're in peril of our souls
From feathers, tar, and lib'rty-poles:
And vows extorted are not binding
In law, and so not worth the minding.
For we have in this hurly-burly
Sent off our consciences on furlow:
Thrown our religion o'er in form,
Our ship to lighten in the storm.
Nor need we blush your Whigs before;
If we've no virtue, you've no more."
"Yet black with sins, would stain a mitre,
Rail ye at crimes by ten tints whiter?
And stuff'd with choler atrabilious,
Insult us here for peccadilloes?
While all your vices run so high
That mercy scarce could find supply:
While, should you offer to repent,
You'd need more fasting days than Lent,
More groans than haunted church-yard vallies,
And more confessions than broad-alleys.
I'll show you all at fitter time,
Th' extent and greatness of your crime,
And here demonstrate to your face,
Your want of virtue, as of grace,
Evinc'd from topics old and recent:
But thus much must suffice at present.
To th' after portion of the day,
I leave what more remains to say;
When I've good hope you'll all appear,
More fitted and prepar'd to hear,
And griev'd for all your vile demeanour:
But now 'tis time t' adjourn for dinner."