[7] The Methodist was reviewed by _The Monthly Review_, XXV (1766), pp. 319-321, and _Gentleman's Magazine_, XXXVI (1766), p. 335. _Conversation_ was reviewed more favorably by _The Monthly Review_, XXXVII (1767), p. 394, and by _The Critical Review_ XXIV (1767), pp. 341-343. _The Critical Review_ compared him with Swift. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE This facsimile of _The Methodist_ (1766) is reproduced from a copy [840. k. 10. (18.)] in the British Museum by kind permission of the Trustees. THE METHODIST. A POEM. BY E Lloyd [HW: Signature] AUTHOR OF The Powers of the Pen, and The Curate. LONDON: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR; And Sold by RICHARDSON and URQUHART, under the ROYAL-EXCHANGE, CORNHILL. MDCCLXVI. THE METHODIST. Nothing, search all creation round, Nothing so _firmly good_ is found, Whose substance, with such closeness knit, _Corruption_'s _Touch_ will not admit; But, spite of all incroaching stains, Its native purity retains: Whose texture will nor warp, nor fade, Though moths and weather shou'd invade, Which _Time_'s sharp tooth cannot corrode, Proof against _Accident_ and _Mode_; And, maugre each assailing dart, Thrown by the hand of Force, or Art, Remains (let Fate do what it will) _Simple_ and _uncorrupted_ still. _Virtue_, of constitution nice, Quickly degen'rates into _Vice_; Change but the _Person_, _Place_, and _Time_, And what was _Merit_ turns to _Crime_. _Wisdom_, which men with so much pain, With so much weariness attain, May in a little moment quit, And abdicate the throne of Wit, And leave, a vacant seat, the brain, For Folly to usurp and reign. Should you but discompose the tide, On which _Ideas_ wont to ride, _Ferment_ it with a _yeasty Storm_, Or with high _Floods of Wine_ deform; Altho' _Sir Oracle_ is he, Who is as wise, as wise can be, In one short minute we shall find The wise man gone, a fool behind. _Courage_, that is all nerve and heart, That dares confront Death's brandish'd dart, That dares to single Fight defy The stoutest Hector of the sky, Whose mettle ne'er was known to slack, Nor wou'd on thunder turn his back; How small a matter may controul, And sooth the fury of his soul! Shou'd this intrepid Mars, his clay Dilute with nerve-relaxing Tea, Thin broths, thin whey, or water-gruel, He is no longer fierce and cruel, But mild and gentle as a dove, The _Hero_'s melted down to _Love_. The _juices_ soften'd, (here we note More on the _juices_ than the _Coat_ Depends, to make a valiant Mars Rich in the heraldry of scars) The _Man_ is _soften'd_ too, and shews No fondness for a bloody nose. When _Georgy S--k----le shunn'd the Fray_, He'd swill'd a little too much Tea. _Chastity_ melts like sun-kiss'd snow, When Lust's hot wind begins to blow.