That to be saved must mean to be undone, Is there not Guthrie?[175] Who, like him, can call All opposites to proof, and conquer all? He calls forth living waters from the rock; He calls forth children from the barren stock; He, far beyond the springs of Nature led, Makes women bring forth after they are dead; 320 He, on a curious, new, and happy plan, In wedlock's sacred bands joins man to man; And to complete the whole, most strange, but true, By some rare magic, makes them fruitful too; Whilst from their loins, in the due course of years, Flows the rich blood of Guthrie's 'English Peers.' Dost thou contrive some blacker deed of shame, Something which Nature shudders but to name, Something which makes the soul of man retreat, And the life-blood run backward to her seat? 330 Dost thou contrive, for some base private end, Some selfish view, to hang a trusting friend; To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath, And promise life, to work him surer death? Grown old in villany, and dead to grace, Hell in his heart, and Tyburn in his face, Behold, a parson at thy elbow stands, Lowering damnation, and with open hands, Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward, The Atheist chaplain of an Atheist lord![176] 340 Bred to the church, and for the gown decreed, Ere it was known that I should learn to read; Though that was nothing, for my friends, who knew What mighty Dulness of itself could do, Never design'd me for a working priest, But hoped I should have been a Dean at least: Condemn'd, (like many more, and worthier men, To whom I pledge the service of my pen)[177] Condemn'd (whilst proud and pamper'd sons of lawn, Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn) 350 In pomp of reverend beggary to appear, To pray, and starve on forty pounds a-year: My friends, who never felt the galling load, Lament that I forsook the packhorse road, Whilst Virtue to my conduct witness bears, In throwing off that gown which Francis[178] wears. What creature's that, so very pert and prim, So very full of foppery, and whim, So gentle, yet so brisk; so wondrous sweet, So fit to prattle at a lady's feet; 360 Who looks as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod, And by his garb appears a man of God? Trust not to looks, nor credit outward show; The villain lurks beneath the cassock'd beau; That's an informer; what avails the name? Suffice it that the wretch from Sodom came. His tongue is deadly--from his presence run, Unless thy rage would wish to be undone. No ties can hold him, no affection bind, And fear alone restrains his coward mind; 370 Free him from that, no monster is so fell, Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in Hell. His silken smiles, his hypocritic air, His meek demeanour, plausible and fair, Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way, And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey. Attend his church--his plan of doctrine view--