When Strephon's Verse before my Eyes was laid,
With Wonder I the nauseous Stuff survey'd;
I read and laugh'd at all the Fop had writ,
Such Malice mingled with so little Wit:
Grubstreet and Billingsgate at once conspire
A Fury strung, and Dullness touch'd the Lyre;
At length I own he could my Passion raise,
Not that he durst to censure, but to praise:
Praise from th' Unworthy, Praise from Strephon's Muse
Is the worst Satire, Wit it self could chuse.
Yet let it not be said fair Jennings' grieves,
(One Tear from Her would cost ten Thousand Lives)
'Twas not Respect the forc'd Encomium drew,
A Foe alike to Virtue and to You,
Resolv'd to blame what set the World on Fire,
He curs'd himself he could not but admire:
Pepar'd to rail, by endless Merits crost,
And what he most commends, he hated most.

So while the Tortur'd in the Dark abode,
Revile alike all Goodness and their God;
'Midst all their Horror, Curses and Dispair,
Should the bright Object of their Hate appear;
Spight of their Pangs, they bless superior Pow'r,
And what they just blasphem'd, are forc'd t'adore.