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Forbid it! nature's exil'd common-sense,
That souls should be redeem'd by paltry pence;

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That priest-attrition ev'ry sin should cure,
And beads and penance make salvation sure!
While Papists gently tune their guileful note,
And tempt us meekly for the mighty vote;
We think of Rome's incestual mass of trick,
From howling Dunstan down to Dominic:—
“What then,”—cries candid Plowden, “still we own,
This saintly humbug props the Papal throne;
Who dares abjure one saint's recorded deed,—
He lies,—a dastard to our Romish creed!”