From that dire æra, bane to Sarum's pride,
Which broke his schemes and laid his friends aside,
He talks and writes that Pop'ry will return,
And we, and he, and all his works will burn.
What touch'd himself was almost fairly prov'd,
(Oh, far from Britain be the rest remov'd!)
For, as of late he meant to bless the age
With flagrant Prefaces of party-rage,
O'er-wrought with passion and the subject's weight,
Lolling, he nodded in his elbow-seat,
Down fell the candle; Grease and Zeal conspire,
Heat meets with heat, and Pamphlets burn their Sire.
Here crawls a Preface on its half-burn'd maggots,
And there an Introduction brings its faggots;
Then roars the Prophet of the Northern Nation,
Scorch'd by a flaming speech on Moderation.

Unwarn'd by this, go on the realm to fright,
Thou Briton, vaunting in thy second-sight;
In such a Ministry you safely tell,
How much you'd suffer, if Religion fell.