html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Should some fam'd Hand, in this fantastic Age,
Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the Stage,
With all his Postures, in one motley Plan,
The God, the Hound, the Monkey and the Man:
Here o'er his Head high-brandishing a Leg,
And there just hatch'd, and breaking from his Egg;
While Monster crowds on Monster through the Piece,
Who could help laughing at a Sight like this?
Or as a Drunkard's Dream together brings
A Court of Coblers, and a Mob of Kings;
Such is a Sermon, where confus'dly dark,
Join Hoadly, Sharp, South, Sherlock, Wake, and Clarke.
So Eggs of different Parishes will run
To batter, when you beat six Yolks to one;
So six bright chymic Liquors if you mix,
In one dark Shadow vanish all the six.
This Licence Priests and Painters ever had.
To run bold Lengths, but never to run mad;
For these can't reconcile God's Grace to Sin,
Nor those paint Tygers in an Ass's Skin;
No common Dauber in one Piece would join
A Fox and Goose,———unless upon a Sign.
Some steal a Page of Sense from Tillotson,
And then conclude divinely with their own;
Like Oil on Water mounts the Prelate up,
His Grace is always sure to be at Top;
That Vein of Mercury it's Beams will spread,
And shine more strongly through a Mine of Lead.
With such low Arts your Hearers never bilk,
For who can bear a Fustian lin'd with Silk?
Sooner than preach such Stuff, I'd walk the Town,
Without my Scarf in Whiston's draggled Gown;
Ply at the Chapter and at Child's to read
For Pence, and bury for a Groat a Head.
Some easy Subject chuse, within your Power,
Or you will ne'er hold out for Half an Hour.
Still to your Hearers all your Sermons sort;
Who'd preach against Corruption at the Court?
Against Church Pow'r at Visitations bawl?
Or talk about Damnation at Whitehall?
}Harangue the Horse-guards on a Cure of Souls?
Condemn the Quirks of Chancery at the Rolls?
Or rail at Hoods and Organs at St. Paul's?
Or be, like David Jones, so indiscreet,
To rave at Usurers in Lombard-street?
Begin with Care, nor, like that Curate vile,
Set out in this high prancing stumbling Syle:
"Whoever with a piercing Eye can see,
"Through the past Records of Futurity"—
All gape, no Meaning:—the puft Orator
Talks much, and says just nothing, for an Hour.
Truth and the Text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away:
So frugal Dames insipid Water pour,
Till Green, Bohea, or Coffee are no more.
His Arguments in giddy Circles run
Still round and round, and end where they begun:
So the poor Turnspit, as the Wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he loses Ground.
No Parts distinct, or general Scheme we find,
But one wild shapeless Monster of the Mind:
So when old Bruin teems, her Children fail
Of Limbs, Form, Figure, Features, Head or Tail;
Nay, though she licks the Ruins, all her Cares
Scarce mend the Lumps, and bring them but to Bears.
Ye Country Vicars, when you preach in Town
A Turn at Paul's, to pay your Journey down,
If you would shun the Sneer of every Prig,
Lay by the little Band, and rusty Wig:
But yet be sure, your proper Language know,
Nor talk as born within the Sound of Bow.
Speak not the Phrase that Drury-lane affords,
Nor from 'Change-alley steal a Cant of Words.
Coachmen will criticise your Style, nay further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful Murder;
The Dregs of the Canaille will look askew
To hear the Language of the Town from you;
}Nay, my Lord May'r, with Merriment possest,
Will break his Nap, and laugh among the rest,
And jog the Aldermen to hear the Jest.
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