Gulliveriana or, a fourth volume of miscellanies. Being a Sequel of the Three Volumes published by Pope and Swift. To which is added, Alexanderiana; or, A Comparison between the Ecclesiastical and Poetical Pope. And many Things, in Verse and Prose, relating to the latter. With an ample Preface; and a Critique on the Third Volume of Miscellanies lately publish'd by those two facetious Writers [by Jonathan Smedley] |
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The Devil's Last Game:
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272
The Devil's Last Game:
A SATIRE.
Said
Old Nick, to St. Michael, You use me but ill,
To suppress all my Force, and restrain all my Skill:
Let me loose at Religion, I'll shew my Good Parts,
And try, if your Doctrine can balance my Arts.
'Tis a Match, cry'd the Angel,—and drew off his Guard,
And the Devil slipt from him, to play a Coat Card.
To suppress all my Force, and restrain all my Skill:
Let me loose at Religion, I'll shew my Good Parts,
And try, if your Doctrine can balance my Arts.
'Tis a Match, cry'd the Angel,—and drew off his Guard,
And the Devil slipt from him, to play a Coat Card.
The first Help he sought, was a qualified Mind,
That had Compass, and Void, for the Use he design'd.
There occurr'd a Pert Nothing, a Stick of Church Timber,
Who had Stiffness of Will, but his Morals were limber:
To whom Wit serv'd for Reason, and Passion for Zeal;
Who had Teeth like a Viper, and Tail, like an Eel.
Whose Distaste was sincere, and whose Friendship Pretence,
Who supply'd Want of Merit, by Store of fine Sense.
Wore the Malice of Hell, with a Heavenly Grace,
Of Humour enchanting, and Easy of Face:
His Tongue flow'd with Honey, His Eyes flash'd Delight;
He despis'd what was wrong, and abus'd what was right:
Had a Knack to laugh luckily, never thought twice,
And, with Coarseness of Heart, had a Taste, that was nice.
Nature form'd him malignant, but, whetting him fast,
He was edg'd for Decay, and too brittle to last.
He wou'd quarrel with Vertue, because 'twas his Foe's,
And was hardly a Friend to the Vice, which he chose:
He cou'd love nothing, grave; nothing, pleasant, forbear;
He was always in Jest, but was most so, in Prayer.
That had Compass, and Void, for the Use he design'd.
There occurr'd a Pert Nothing, a Stick of Church Timber,
Who had Stiffness of Will, but his Morals were limber:
273
Who had Teeth like a Viper, and Tail, like an Eel.
Whose Distaste was sincere, and whose Friendship Pretence,
Who supply'd Want of Merit, by Store of fine Sense.
Wore the Malice of Hell, with a Heavenly Grace,
Of Humour enchanting, and Easy of Face:
His Tongue flow'd with Honey, His Eyes flash'd Delight;
He despis'd what was wrong, and abus'd what was right:
Had a Knack to laugh luckily, never thought twice,
And, with Coarseness of Heart, had a Taste, that was nice.
Nature form'd him malignant, but, whetting him fast,
He was edg'd for Decay, and too brittle to last.
He wou'd quarrel with Vertue, because 'twas his Foe's,
And was hardly a Friend to the Vice, which he chose:
274
He was always in Jest, but was most so, in Prayer.
Lord be prais'd, quoth the Devil!—A Fig for all Grace!
So, He breath'd a new Brogue, o'er the Bronze of his Face:
Lent him Pride, above Hope, and Conceit above Spleen,
Slipt him into Church-Service, and call'd him a DEAN.
So, He breath'd a new Brogue, o'er the Bronze of his Face:
Lent him Pride, above Hope, and Conceit above Spleen,
Slipt him into Church-Service, and call'd him a DEAN.
| Gulliveriana | |