For this the clergy will still argue on, Deny for pique, assert from prejudice; Show us the lesson, seldom the example, And preach up laws which they will ne'er obey. Havard's King Charles I. He could raise scruples dark and nice, And after solve 'em in a trice; As if divinity had catch'd
The itch on purpose to be scratch'd.
But preaching was his chiefest talent, Or argument, in which being valiant, He us'd to lay about and stickle, Like ram or bull at conventicle; For disputants, like rams and bulls, Do fight with arms that spring from skulls, Butler's Hudibras.
Denounc'd and pray'd, with fierce devotion, And bended elbows on the cushion; Stole from the beggars all their tones, And gifted mortifying groans: Had lights where better eyes were blind, As pigs are said to see the wind.
And yet the actions be contrary, Just as the saints and wicked vary.
My reason blindfold like a hamper'd lion, Check'd of his noble vigour : then, when baited Down to obedient tameness, may it couch, And show strange tricks, which you call signs of faith:
So silly souls are gull'd, and you get money! Otway's Venice Preserved. Is not the care of souls a load sufficient? Are not your holy stipends paid for this? Were you not bred apart from worldly noise To study souls, their cures, and their diseases? The province of the soul is large enough To fill up every cranny of your time, And leave you much to answer, if one wretch Be damn'd by your neglect.
Dryden's Don Sebastian. I tell thee, Mufti, if the world were wise, They would not wag one finger in thy quarrels: Your heav'n you promise, but our earth you covet: The Phaetons of mankind, who fire that world
Butler's Hudibras. Which you were sent, by preaching but to warm.
For he was of that stubborn crew, Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;
Dryden's Don Sebastian. Bloated with ambition, pride and avarice, You swell to counsel kings and govern kingdoms. Content you with monopolizing heav'n,
And let this little hanging ball alone :
For give you but a foot of conscience there, And you, like Archimedes, top the globe.
Dryden's Don Sebastian. I met a reverend, fat, old, gouty friar, With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin Might rest upon't: a true son of the church! Fresh-colour'd and well-thriving on his trade. Dryden's Spanish Fair. Priesthood, that makes a merchandise of Heav'n! Priesthood, that sells ev'n to their pray'rs and blessings,
And force us to pay for our own cos'nage.
Dryden's Troilus and Cressida. The proud he tam'd, the penitent he cheer'd:
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.
His preaching much, but more his practice
(A living sermon of the truths he taught,)
For this by rules severe his life he squar'd⚫ That all might see the doctrine which they heard. Dryden's Character of a Good Parsvn. A fox, full fraught with seeming sanctity, That fear'd an oath, but like the devil would liu, Who look'd like lent, and had the holy Icer, And durst not sin before he said his prayer.
His talk was now of tythes and dues; IIe smok'd his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach old sermons next, Vamp'd in the preface and the text; At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart; Wish'd women might have children fast, And thought whose sow had farrow'd last; Against dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for right divine; Found his head fill'd with many a system, But classic authors- he ne'er miss'd 'em.
Swift's Baucis and Philemon. If such dinners you give,
You'll ne'er want for parsons as long as you live: I ne'er knew a parson without a good nose, But the devil's as welcome wherever he goes.
Why seek we truth from priests?
Rear in the streets bright altars to the gods, Let virgin's hands adorn the sacrifice; And not a grey-beard forging priest come here, To pry into the bowels of their victim, And with their dotage mad the gaping world. Lee's Edipus. Ill befall
Such meddling priests, wh. kindle up confusion, And vex the quiet world with their vain scruples; By heav'n 't is done in perfect spite of peace. Rowe's Jane Shore.
Others of graver mien, behold, adorn'd With holy ensigns, how sublime they move, And bending oft their sanctimonious eyes, Take homage of the simple-minded throng; Ambassadors of heaven!
Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination. lear yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd nor wish'd to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. Goldsmith's Deserted Village.
Of right and wrong he taught Truths as refined as ever Athens heard; And (strange to tell!) he practised what he preach'd.
Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health.
The royal letters are a thing of course,
A king, that would, might recommend his horse; And deans, no doubt, and chapters with one voice, As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. Behold your bishop!-well he plays his part, Christian in name, and infidel in heart, Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan, A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man. Dumb as a senator, and as a priest;
A piece of mere church-furniture at best. Cowper's Tirocinium
Your lordship and your grace, what schools can teach
A rhetoric equal to those parts of speech? What need of Homer's verse, or Tully's prose, Sweet interjections! if he learn but those: Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke Who starve upon a dog's-ear'd Pentateuch, The parson knows enough who knows a duke. Cowper's Tirocinium.
In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. "Tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust.
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip Behold the picture! Is it like? Like whom?
And then skip down again. Pronounce a text, Cry hem; and reading what they never wrote, Just fifteen minutes huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene. Cowper's Task.
From such apostles, oh ye mitred heads, Preserve the church; and lay not careless hands On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. Cowper's Task
Burns's Holy Friar. Haughty of heart and brow the warrior came, In look and language proud as proud could be, Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights and fame; Yet was that bare-foot monk more proud than he. Scott's Vision of Don Roderick. Such vast impressions did his sermons make, He always kept his flock awake.
Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pindar. In short, no dray-horse ever work'd so hard, From vaults to drag up hogshead, tun, or pipe, As this good priest, to drag, for small reward, The souls of sinners from the devil's gripe. Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pindar.
Did gentlemen of fortune die, And leave the church a good round sum; Lo! in the twinkling of an eye,
The parson frank'd their souls to kingdom come. Dr. Wolcot's Peter Pindar. Whate'er
I may have been, or am, doth rest between Heaven and myself—I shall not choose a mortal To be my mediator.
CIRCUMVENTION-CIGAR-CITY AND CITIZENS.
Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd |
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs, Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd unrung, untouch'd. Such tales their cheer at wake or gossipping, When it draws near to 'witching time of night. Blair's Grave.
There lay the warrior and the son of song, And there-in silence till the judgment day- The orator, whose all-persuading tongue Had mov'd the nations with resistless sway. Mrs. Norton. What to us the grave?
It brings no real homily! we sigh, Pause for awhile and murmur-"All must die!" Then rush to pleasure, action, sin, once more, Swell the loud tide and fret unto the shore.
The New Timon. In dim cathedrals, dark with vaulted gloom, What holy awe invests the sacred tomb! There pride will bow, and anxious care expand, And creeping avarice come with open hand; The gay can weep, the impious can adore, From morn's first glimmerings on the chancel
Till dying sunset shed his crimson stains Through the faint halos of the iris'd panes.
O. W. Holmes. Yet there are graves, whose rudely shapen sod Bears the fresh footprints where the sexton trod; Graves where the verdure has not dar'd to shoot, Where the chance wildflower has not fix'd its root, Whose slumbering tenants, dead without a name, The eternal record shall at length proclaim Pure as the holiest in the long array Of hooded, mitred, or tiara'd clay !
So merchant has his house in town, O. W. Holmes. And country-seat near Banstead down: From one he dates his foreign letters, Sends out his goods, and duns his debtors; In t'other, at his hours of leisure, He smokes his pipe, and takes his pleasure. Prior's Alma.
They must sweep my way,
And marshal me to knavery: Let it work- For 'tis the sport, to have the engineer Hoist with his own petard; and 't shall go hard, But I will delve one yard below their mines, And blow them at the moon.
This work requires long time, dissembling looks, Commixt with undermining actions, Watching advantages to execute
Our foes are mighty, and their number great, It therefore follows that our stratagems Must branch forth into manifold deceits, Endless devices, bottomless conclusions.
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth; His word would pass for more than he was worth. One solid dish his week-day meal affords, And added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's; Constant at church and 'change, his gains were
His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. Pope's Moral Essays,
Or at some banker's desk, like many more, Content to tell that two and two make four, His name had stood in city annals fair, And prudent dulness mark'd him for a mayor. Churchill'e Rosciad
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