Ay, that’s the right way, I know well: But how _lyes_ with _perfection_ can dwell, Is a riddle, dear John, that would puzzle all hell. JOHN. Pish, you talk like a doating old elf: Can’t you see now it brings in the pelf? And all things are lawful that serve a man’s self. As serpents we ought to be wise: Is not self-preservation a prize? For this did not _Abram_ the righteous tell lyes? NICK. I perceive you are subtle, tho’ small: You have reason, and scripture, and all; So stilted, you never can _finally fall_. JOHN. From the drift of your latter reflection, I fear you maintain some connection With the crocodile crew that believe in Election. NICK. By my troth, I abhor the whole troop; With those heroes I never could cope: I should chuckle to see them all swing in a rope. JOHN. Ah, could we but set the land free From those bawlers about the _Decree_, Who’re such torments to you, to my brother, and me! As for _Whitefield_, I know it right well, He has sent down his thousands to hell; And, for aught that I know, he’s gone with ’em to dwell. NICK. I grant, my friend John, for ’tis true, That he was not so _perfect_ as YOU: Yet (confound him) I lost him, for all I could do. JOHN. Take comfort! he’s not gone to glory; Or, at most, not above the _first_ story. For none but the _perfect_ escape purgatory. At best he’s in _limbo_, I am sure; And must still a long purging endure, Ere like _me_, he’s made sinless, quite holy, and pure. NICK. Such purging my Johnny needs none. By your own mighty works it is done, And the kingdom of glory your _merit_ has won. Thus wrapt in your self-righteous plod, And self-raised when you throw off this clod, You shall mount, and demand your own seat like a god: You shall not in Paradise wait, But climb the _third_ story with state; While your _Whitefields_ and _Hills_ are turn’d back from the gate. Old John never dreamt that he jeer’d: So Nick turn’d himself round, and he sneer’d; And then shrugg’d up his shoulders, and straight disappear’d. The priest, with a simpering face, Shook his hair-locks and paused for a space: Then sat down to forge lyes, with his usual grimace. “ASCULTATOR.” {239}