University of Virginia Library

Third LETTER.

To the Parson.

Parson;

What makes thee thus like silly Widgeon,
Debauch Burlesque with dull Religion?
Dost think, thou Coxcomb, with a murrain,
'Twas made for thee to keep a stir in?
That 'twas design'd for thee to prate on,
And tell us Tales of dirty Satan?
Now P--- upon thee, paultry Parson,
Thou'st writ me Word of true Sense scarce one.
But not to turn you topsy-turvy,
As my Epistle you do scurvy;
I have beyond what you expected,
To you in this my Thanks directed:
The care you take to save my Spirit,
No less Acknowledgment does merit.
But O thou Man in Gospel skilful,
Thou talk'st to me as bold and wilful,
As to the godly Wife of Farmer,
When with thy Noise thou mean'st to charm her:
But know, thou Heav'nly Pettifogger,
These will not sink into my Logger—
You know my meaning by my mumping,
For good Wits ever will be jumping,
And Parsons Pulpit-Cushions thumping:
It lays more weight upon the Sentence,
And hectors Folks into Repentance.
And truth is, Thumps are much more weighty
Than any thing that they can say t'ye;
And I believe turn many Sinners,
Especially if young Beginners.
But Priest, thou know'st it, I'm an old one
In Vice, as thou say'st, and a bold one.
Why should'st thou hope then to abuse me,
And to mere Godliness seduce me?
Lord! what a Question thou wert starting!
You bid me think my self departing;
Then ask me if no Thought would fright me:
Yes faith! it plaguily would spite me
To leave this Life that does delight me.
My Moll would think it much uneven,
Should I relinquish her for Heaven,
Since she for me has that neglected:
You see how much, Jack, I'm respected;
But why did'st wish her Tail infected?
Thou dost, because I have her cock-sure,
Desire that she may get the Pox sure:
But let that pass, and hear how neatly
You preach to me a devilish great Lye;
Thy Soul, dear Friend, O have a care on't,
Will feel strange Pains in Hell, I warrant,
Because she lets thy Flesh controul her,
And on a baudy Wench cajole her:
For which thy Flesh too shall know Sorrows,
And bear a part in th'Hellish Chorus.
This is your Hell, you tell me whining;
Now hear how 'tis of my defining:
There shall some little huffing Demon,
Whom you, 'tis like, did never dream on
Altho you were the greatest Bully,
Put false Dice on you, as on Cully.
There if you go a Wench to pick up,
You shall be plagu'd with such a Hickup,
That for your Blood you shall not utter
One word of Sense to make her foutre.
But if by chance you be so happy,
By sacred D'avenant's Nose she'll clap you;
And for your Wine, drink little or much on't,
The devilish Quality is such on't,
That 'twill recal those Pleasures past,
Of which you ne'er again shall taste;
'Twill make you talk of Friend and Mistress,
And lead you into plaguy Distress:
'Tis full of Brimstone, Tartar, Lime,
'Tis always rack'd, and never fine;
And tho it still provoke your loathing,
This either you must drink, or nothing.
Thus I have told you my Opinion,
Of sooty Beelzebub's Dominion:
But you would stretch my Faith's Dimension,
To credit Hell of your Invention,
And counsel me to live demurely,
That I may die the more securely.
But dost thou think I'll baulk the Humour,
Because of thirsty hellish Rumour?
No more, good John, for all your Lying,
There is no Hell but that of dying:
Unless—
To Men, and such I hope but few are,
That do believe thy Stories true are:
Such may indeed be strangely pond'ring
On some sad Place to which they're wand'ring.
And faith, methinks, thou should'st not sleep well,
For thus distracting silly People.
I know this Letter will inspire
Your Thoughts with a most zealous Fire,
And you will still at Rhyme be nibbling,
And plague me daily with your scribbling;
'Till I am forc'd to say, controul'd lies,
Your Servant,