University of Virginia Library

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CANTO III. On the Mob's pulling down Doctor B---'s Meeting-house.

Th' Infernal Brood being now abroad,
Not Eas'ly to be tam'd or aw'd;
But like the Dev'l in a Passion,
Rais'd by unskilful Conjuration;
Must if they once have got their Head,
B' imploy'd before they can be laid;
Accordingly with Zeal as hot,
As Broth in boiling Porridge-Pot;
When the Fat leaps into the Fire,
And makes the Liquor boil the higher;
After some little Consultation,
Which way or how to vent their Passion;
Whether on him who'd crown'd the Rabble,
To make the Sov'reign Pow'r a Bauble;

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And labour'd like a Tom-a-doodle,
To place the Rump above the Noddle,
Or whether they should steer their Course;
And exercise their Evil Force
On him that used much Malediction,
Against a Brother in Affliction;
And like a True-Blew Moderator;
Would Hang him first, and Try him a'ter;
But one, a leader of the Brutes,
To put an end to all Disputes;
Held forth a little to the rest;
And thus in short his Mind exprest.

Should we, like Giddy Fools, Despite
The Priest that does assert our Right;
And gives us Title to Confront
Our Kings, and call them to Account.
To our own Friends we should be rude,
And treat them with Ingratitude;
No, should we prove so rashly blind,
They'd dash it in our Dish you'd find,

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And say, as Pow'der in a Flame,
Blew up the Monk that mix'd the same;
So we have made the Priest our Sport,
That gave us Pow'r to do the hurt.

These Arguments convinc'd the Rout,
And made the Scoundrels face about;
Who in a Fury Westward ran,
In quest of such another Man;
Who did thro' Providence escape,
The Rage of the Misjudging Frape;
So that with base unhallowed Hands,
Persuant to the Dev'ls Commands;
Or some curs'd Wretch as bad as he,
That led the vile Mobility;
To the great Shame of Humane Race,
They sack'd the Good Man's Holy Place;
And there, as Fame reports the Matter,
Among his Pews made wicked Slaughter;
Leaving the sacred Conventicle,
Polluted in a shameful pickle;

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So Rebels flush'd in Civil Wars,
Who Gallows fear no more than Scars;
To vex the Prince that wears the Crown,
Pull Palaces and Churches down.

The Sacred Fold, b'ing thus defil'd,
And the Flocks, Pens and Hurdles spoil'd;
Wherein the Sheperd's Stiff'neck'd Rams,
And all his pritty Yews and Lambs,
Were by their Good old Nursing Father,
Call'd twice or thrice a Week together;
And Fodder'd e'ery other Day;
With Grace instead of Grass or Hay;
The Mob each laden with their Plunder,
As much as they could well stand under;
Carr'd off the Trophies they had Won
By the bold Hazards they had Run,
And like successful Soldiers flush'd
With Victory away they rush'd,
Into a Neighb'ring Field that there,
They might Refresh in op'ner Air.

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And sacrifice their Wooden Spoils,
In hopes their Heath'nish flaming Piles,
Might make Atonement for their Ills;
So Canibals who hold it Good,
To prey on Humane Flesh and Blood,
When they've subdu'd some Wand'ring Wretch,
With Fleshy Chine, and Brawny Britch;
Pick here and there a Bit that's best,
Then offer to the Devil the Rest.

Some of the more Revengeful Mob,
Who took the Pulpit for a Tub;

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The Sacred Hut in pieces pull'd,
Where Pious D---l oft had loll'd;
And with his Merry Tales diverted,
Despairing Saints half broken hearted;
Who did not Join his Congregation,
Alone for Christian Consolation;
But for the Affable Promotion,
Of Frantick Flirts beside the Cushion;
For tho' perhaps with Thund'ring Voice,
He'd Damn his Hearers twice or thrice,
Yet he'd ne'er fail to treat 'em after,
With a kind healing Mess of Laughter;
So Quacks or Nurses when they give us,
A bitter Potion to relieve us,
Pop something down that's sweet at last,
To carry off the nauseous Tast.

Thus did the Mob's unhallow'd Hands,
The Pulpit turn to Fiery Brands;
And, therefore, to the Flames of Course,
Condemn'd the Pews without Remorse;

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As if the Sacred Goods had been,
Made Privy to that Carnal Sin;
Which caus'd the Lady of the House,
Who'd found her Man and Maid too close,
To turn the Lovers out of Door,
And burn the sinful Furniture.

Thus was the Meeting by the Rabble,
Left like Saint Paul's when made a Stable;
The Walls impair'd, the Windows shatter'd,
The Roof and all the Building batter'd;
That now it looks disrob'd of Pews,
And Pulpit, rather like a Stews
Deserted by the Kind and Fair,
Who kept it once in good Repair;
Than like a Meeting, whose Foundation
Stood firm on Rock of Toleration;
And that the Magazine of Pow'r,
Had thus presum'd to pull it lower;
Nor is its suddain Downfal strange,
Since all things upon Earth must Change;

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The Strong, the Rich, the Good, the Great,
Must in their Turns submit to Fate,
And holy Places that have been,
Long since the nurseries of Sin;
Perhaps fam'd Dancing Schools before,
May happen to be so once more,
Why not, since sacred Walls by Rebels,
Turn'd heretofore to Barns and Stables;
Are now reform'd from their Abuses,
And so restor'd to Pious Uses.

The Graceless Croud thus carry'd off,
The Good Man's sacred Houshold-stuff;
Wasting his Cordials which they met with
In Vestry Cubboard, kept to whet with;
That e'er he climb'd the Holy Place,
To shed the Drippings of his Grace;
A Coague of some good Houswife's Water,
Might Chear his Spirits, Strengthen Nature,
And make the Guide hold forth the better;
So Pious Matrons when they're past
Intrigue, and grow Devoutly Chast,

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Take Drams of Comfort e'ery Day,
As often as they P---ss or Pray;
For most Good Ladies have a Notion,
What warms their Spirits, helps Devotion;
From whence some Saints inclin'd to Fuddling,
Are most Religious when they're Maudling.

Nor did the Rabble spare his Pipes,
Of Mortal Clay, those Brittle Types,
Which often serv'd the Good Old Man,
To Smoak and Moralize upon;
And cool him after two Hours sweating,
With over Pains, and over Prating;
Yet these Rapacious Interlopers,
Turn'd all the crusty Tubes to Stoppers,
And strew'd about the Wicked Weed,
Like Gard'ners when they sow their Seed,
As if they thought it was no Sin,
To ruin what they found therein,
Unless the Fruits of their Abuse,
Should be Carr'd Home to their own Use:

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Who came not in such Publick Joy,
To Steal, but only to Destroy;
So Ladies who by seeming Force
Are Ravish'd, think they're ne'er the worse;
Lest they take Mony for their Pains,
And Sin for Mercenary Gains;
Or that they chance to be defil'd,
By getting either Pox or Child;

So Pious Rebels who begun,
The glorious Work of Forty One;

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Thank'd Heav'n for all their Hellish Murders,
And Joy'd amidst their vile Disorders,
That Zealous Fools might loudly Praise,
The Work of those Reforming Days;
And think their Wickedness was meant,
T'at length produce some good Event.

When thus they'd pil'd their Plunder up,
And with the Pulpit crown'd the Top;

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As if those Heathens who were nigh it,
Wish'd th' Owner there to Occupy it;
That he and's Meetings-house together,
Might both ascend the Lord knows whether;
And like the Monk to Heav'n aspire,
Against his Will in Smoak and Fire;
So Rebels in Religious times;
When Blood and Theft were thought no Crimes;
With others Lives and Goods made Sport,
Yet meant poor harmless Souls no hurt;
Sought only Profit and Applause,
By pushing on the Good Old Cause.

When thus the Holy Goods they'd spoil'd,
Were into one High Mountain pil'd;
And ready to receive the Fire,
By which th' were destin'd to expire:
A flaming Torch was handed to't,
By some bold Sacrilegious Brute;
Whose Malice no Distinction knew;
Between a Babbin and a Pew;

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Or any Difference in his Maggot,
Betwixt a Pulpit and a Faggot;
But thought as long as both would burn,
That both alike might serve their turn;
And make a Bonfire for the Rout,
To Hollow, Sport, and Dance about;
So those who, hating all that's Papal,
Ransack'd the Spanish Popish Chappel;
Made no Distinction in their Malice,
'Twixt Common Silver and the Chalice;
But like a true Reforming Rabble,
Ev'n Plunder'd the Commanion Table.