But, vicar, to come to the case,— Amidst a senseless crowd, What urged you to such violence, And made you talk so loud? Passion I’m sure does ill become Your character and cloath, And, tho’ the cause be ne’er so just, Brings scandal upon both. Vicar, I speak it with regret, An inadvertent priest Renders himself ridiculous, And every body’s jest. The vicar to be thus rebuked A little time stood mute; But having gulp’d his passion down, Replies,—That cobbling brute Has treated me with such contempt, Such vile expressions used, That I no longer could forbear To hear myself abused. The rascal had the insolence To give himself the lie, And to aver h’ had done more good And saved more soals than I. Nay, further, Sir, this miscreant To tell me was so bold, Our trades were very near of kin, But his was the more old. Now, Sir, I will to you appeal On such a provocation, If there was not sufficient cause To use a little passion? Now, quoth the cobbler, with your leave, I’ll prove it to his face, All this is mere suggestion, And foreign to the case. And since he calls so many names And talks so very loud, I will be bound to make it plain ’Twas he that raised the crowd. Nay, further, I will make ’t appear He and the priests have done More mischief than the cobblers far All over Christendom. All Europe groans beneath their yoke, And poor Great Britain owes To them her present miseries, And dread of future woes. The priests of all religions are And will be still the same, And all, tho’ in a different way, Are playing the same game. At this the gentleman stood up,— Cobbler, you run too fast; By thus condemning all the tribe You go beyond your last. Much mischief has by priests been done, And more is doing still; But then to censure all alike Must be exceeding ill. Too many, I must needs confess, Are mightily to blame, Who by their wicked practices Disgrace the very name. But, cobbler, still the major part The minor should conclude; To argue at another rate’s Impertinent and rude. By this time all the neighbours round Were flock’d about the door, And some were on the vicar’s side, But on the cobbler’s more. Among the rest a grazier, who Had lately been at town To sell his oxen and his sheep, Brim-full of news came down. Quoth he, The priests have preach’d and pray’d, And made so damn’d a pother, That all the people are run mad To murther one another. By their contrivances and arts They’ve play’d their game so long, That no man knows which side is right, Or which is in the wrong.