Nor suffer we here any Authors to write; And to talk of the State, why, ’tis deemed impolite; And the Point Revelation, that’s banish’d your Creed, 170 Would not move a Debate where we all are agreed; Nor have we a Subject which Satan can reckon Is fit for a Genius among us to speak on. But, by Way of Digression, we can but admire That your Ladies to argue should cooly desire, Should one at a Time any Subject discuss: They ne’er could be brought to that Order with us. But they still altogether their Subjects pursue With the Knack which they formerly had among you; And we marvel that Men of Discretion can teach 180 To such Lips the all-conquering Graces of Speech! But my Plan to return to, ye Sages, assist; Let’s our Heads lay together, our Arguments twist, And prove by the Light we thought proper to kindle In our dearly beloved, our Toland and Tindal! With Arguments all unresisted as these, That men have a right to do just what they please; And, because I shall chance my own Worth to proclaim, My Actions, my Spirit, my Merit and Fame, With Modesty such as you can but approve 190 I shall speak in the Words of my Vot’ries above. Yet, again to digress: you must never suppose But even the learned are sometimes my Foes; Nor is it a volatile Genius alone, Or eccentric Attempt, that proclaims you my own, There was Priestley, they told me, had wrote in my Cause, And publish’d good Things with a deal of Applause; But ’tis mere Imposition—he scribble for me! He scrawl in my Favour! No, damn him, not he! Yet ’tis some Consolation that Blunderers make 200 His meanings so strange, that they’re ours by Mistake. And now, having settled the principal Points, Your Master the Head of his Prophet anoints, And, judging all Conscience no more in the Way, Thus bids you to sing, or thus bids you to say. “What pictures of Life do the Dogmatists paint! What a dull Dissertation comes forth from the Saint! How they roar against Sin and contribute to drub Every Demon from Earth, both in Pulpit and Tub; Enjoyment how plaguily low do they rate it, 210 How rail at all Pleasure, and tell you they hate it; As Jockeys, designing to purchase your Horse, Will assure you no Mortal on Earth has a worse, Display ev’ry Failing with exquisite Skill, Yet bestride him themselves with a hearty good Will! “’Twere well if the Earth had their Censure engross’d; But the Devil engages their Spleen to his Cost! Poor Devil! from whom half our Blessings accrue,— But the Saints give to no one the Qualities due. Else, how might they praise without Flatt’ry’s Appearance 220 His Honour, his Spirit, his known Perseverance; How seldom his Friendship’s remember’d to alter; How he smiles on the Block, and how softens the Halter! The Friends to his Cause he with Spirit supports, Attends them at Tyburn, conveys them to Courts;