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165
THE PRIEST AND THE PLAYER:
A TALE.
(Inscribed to the bench of Bishops.)
A famish'd son of Thespis, who had oft
Lodg'd with Contentment in an ale-house loft,
By lean Ambition, and the Muses led,
Who warm'd his passions, but, denied him, bread,
A luckless wight, but yet, alas! not rare,
Who beat the drum, and gave the bill of fare,
Creeping from door to door, with servile mien,
To tell the wonders waiting to be seen;
When solemn Eve should still the babbling throng,
And the rude hamlet list to Shakespeare's song,
Bearing with patient shrugs and goaded mind,
The wormwood jests of each unfeeling hind,
Tho' the erratic king was meant by Fate
To give such ideots law, and grace the human state;
This motley mouther of heroic measure,
Engender'd when the Planets frown'd on Pleasure,
Was so borne down by Want one sabbath day,
Not having ate for four and twenty hours,
That he neglected or to think or pray,
So much had hunger shook his mental powers;
166
By Accident and Desperation led,
To a small rivulet meand'ring clear,
He made a temporary hook and line,
In hope to stop some speckled trout's career,
To sate his wishes, prop his life, and dine;
But in the very zenith of the deed,
Just as the fish began to move the fly,
Richly appointed on a mettled steed,
A fat unwieldy Pluralist rode by:
What's this, you caitiff? roar'd the reddening priest,
Tell me, how dare you seek this crying evil?
Make you the canons of the church a jest?
Hark! the bell tolls, to snatch you from the devil.
The ragged ranter heav'd a heart-born sigh,
As on the vernal bank half clad he sat,
Leering, contemptuous, with his dexter eye,
Beneath the pent-house of his Time-brown'd hat,
And thus extinguish'd, in a manly tone,
The pamper'd, haughty, selfish, social drone:
I trust I shan't be damn'd, as scholiasts say,
For ever, and a day,
Tho' I must own I am a sable sinner,
Peter, will sure, receive a wretch like me,
(For he lov'd fish, and angled in the sea,)
Whose fiend is Famine, and whose hope—a dinner.
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