Poems on Several Occasions In Two Volumes. By Mr. Joseph Mitchell |
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EPILOGUE TO THE Spanish Fryar. |
 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
119
EPILOGUE TO THE Spanish Fryar.
Grace after Meat, is decent, Sirs, at least,
And who's so fit to say it, as a Priest?
—But there are scrup'lous Souls, I understand,
Who will not take a Blessing off my Hand.
'Tis true, according as I have been painted,
I'm not, as yet, prepar'd for being Sainted.
Yet, 'tis as true, some have been Canoniz'd,
Whose Wickedness was little more disguis'd.
Two Blacks indeed can never make a White,
Nor others Faults make me the more Upright.
I frankly own, I'm a sad Dog—By Trade,
A carnal Pimp, in pious Masquerade.
(And this Confession from a Priest, you'll say,
Is not a Thing that happens every Day.)
Sin is my Business, and my Daily Bread,
From People's Vice my Benefits proceed.
* 'Tis by their living ill, that I live well,
* And their Debauches these fat Paunches swell.
The Priest's a Fool, who is at Vice displeas'd—
Are Doctors vex'd to find Mankind diseas'd?
* But whether we be angry, Sirs, or civil,
* 'Tis a Mock-War betwixt us, and the Devil.
And who's so fit to say it, as a Priest?
—But there are scrup'lous Souls, I understand,
Who will not take a Blessing off my Hand.
'Tis true, according as I have been painted,
I'm not, as yet, prepar'd for being Sainted.
120
Whose Wickedness was little more disguis'd.
Two Blacks indeed can never make a White,
Nor others Faults make me the more Upright.
I frankly own, I'm a sad Dog—By Trade,
A carnal Pimp, in pious Masquerade.
(And this Confession from a Priest, you'll say,
Is not a Thing that happens every Day.)
Sin is my Business, and my Daily Bread,
From People's Vice my Benefits proceed.
* 'Tis by their living ill, that I live well,
* And their Debauches these fat Paunches swell.
The Priest's a Fool, who is at Vice displeas'd—
Are Doctors vex'd to find Mankind diseas'd?
* But whether we be angry, Sirs, or civil,
* 'Tis a Mock-War betwixt us, and the Devil.
121
At this my Doctrine, some may take Offence;
But Lovers, sure, are Folks of better Sense.
And, if Intriguing be the Good Old Way,
Then Popery's best, whate'er Reformers say,
At least, most pleasing, in this Month of May.
Whoe'er wou'd give a Loose to Nature, come,
And revel in the Courts of Love, and Rome.
With us, Love's Carnival is still in Season,
And Absolution asks no Leave of Reason.
* Gold is the Word—bring that, and all goes well,
* There is no Dives in the Roman Hell.
There's no Indulgence, without ready Rhino,
That only makes our Blessings Jure Divino.
That rules the World, and puts Things in right Posture;
But ------
No Pay, no Swiss; no Pence, no Pater-Noster.
But Lovers, sure, are Folks of better Sense.
And, if Intriguing be the Good Old Way,
Then Popery's best, whate'er Reformers say,
At least, most pleasing, in this Month of May.
Whoe'er wou'd give a Loose to Nature, come,
And revel in the Courts of Love, and Rome.
With us, Love's Carnival is still in Season,
And Absolution asks no Leave of Reason.
* Gold is the Word—bring that, and all goes well,
* There is no Dives in the Roman Hell.
There's no Indulgence, without ready Rhino,
That only makes our Blessings Jure Divino.
That rules the World, and puts Things in right Posture;
But ------
No Pay, no Swiss; no Pence, no Pater-Noster.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |