And thus it is. The pastor, either vain By nature, or by flattery made so, taught To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt Absurdly, not his office, but himself; Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn, Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach, Perverting often, by the stress of lewd And loose example, whom he should instruct, Exposes and holds up to broad disgrace The noblest function, and discredits much The brightest truths that man has ever seen. For ghostly counsel, if it either fall Below the exigence, or be not backed With show of love, at least with hopeful proof Of some sincerity on the giver’s part; Or be dishonoured in the exterior form And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks As move derision, or by foppish airs And histrionic mummery, that let down The pulpit to the level of the stage; Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, While prejudice in men of stronger minds Takes deeper root, confirmed by what they see. A relaxation of religion’s hold Upon the roving and untutored heart Soon follows, and the curb of conscience snapt, The laity run wild.—But do they now? Note their extravagance, and be convinced. As nations, ignorant of God, contrive A wooden one, so we, no longer taught By monitors that Mother Church supplies, Now make our own. Posterity will ask (If e’er posterity sees verse of mine), Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, What was a monitor in George’s days? My very gentle reader, yet unborn, Of whom I needs must augur better things, Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world Productive only of a race like us, A monitor is wood—plank shaven thin. We wear it at our backs. There, closely braced And neatly fitted, it compresses hard The prominent and most unsightly bones, And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use Sovereign and most effectual to secure A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, From rickets and distortion, else, our lot. But thus admonished we can walk erect, One proof at least of manhood; while the friend Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. Our habits costlier than Lucullus wore, And, by caprice as multiplied as his, Just please us while the fashion is at full, But change with every moon. The sycophant, That waits to dress us, arbitrates their date, Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye; Finds one ill made, another obsolete, This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived; And, making prize of all that he condemns, With our expenditure defrays his own. Variety’s the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavour. We have run Through every change that fancy, at the loom Exhausted, has had genius to supply, And, studious of mutation still, discard A real elegance, a little used, For monstrous novelty and strange disguise.