In spite of all the rules you can
On men bestow--he still is man;
For who can, by a human feat,
Divest the sun of light and heat!

Why may n't a Priest, for once, appear,
Better than priests in common are!
A faithful shepherd out I'll trim,
Who lov'd his flock--his flock lov'd him.
By penetration, he could tell
The art of spiritual ruling well,
That mode of ruling ne'er should cease
Which has its origin in peace.

The parts sublime of priesthood knew,
And ev'ry part he brought to view;
Kept up his visits in rotation,
Knew where to find the best potation,
Knew when the jack would turn and rest,
And where the meat was roasted best.
His judgment was exceeding clear,
In strength and quantity of beer;
Could tell what oysters, and what ale,
Were needful for a full regale.

If with the better sort he dine,
He well knew how to praise the wine;
The compliment was sure to pass,
And introduce another glass.

Could praise the girl, and stroke the boy,
Which always gives the parent joy;
For ev'ry mother fancies well
Her child's a perfect nonpareil;
Therefore exerted all his power
In commendations by the hour.

A minister his fate would bless,
In finding all this happiness;
For how can he be reckon'd poor,
Supported by the pantry door;
Nor need he ever fear mishap,
When to assistance comes the tap.

Our philosophic Parson thought
The world might soon be better taught
The reason why men did not mend,
The priest began at the wrong end.
That fowler, who'd success engage,
Decoys the bird into his cage.
If you should want your horse from grass,
You'd think your servant but an ass,
And acted like a silly clown,
Should he attempt to run him down.
Through the creation there's a shyness,
Bird, fish, and fair, are caught by finesse.

The first concern of every teacher,
Whether a father, master, preacher,
Should be to find out, if he can,
The greatest enemy to man;
And, when discover'd where he lies,
Then try to conquer by surprize.

He studied men, he studied books,
He canvass'd actions, motives, looks;
He thought, and scratch'd, and thought again,
And many a candle burnt in vain.
At length, with joy, began to own,
He'd found the philosophic stone,
That lying was the very devil
Which led to ev'ry other evil.
This enemy was of long standing,
And ev'ry evil had a hand in,
It started up in Adam's time,
And took a part in ev'ry crime.

Cain caught the itch, and down it flew
Through all the sons, and daughters too.
For if a man but steps awry,
He'll try to hide it with a lie;
And yet confession, at the time,
At least expunges half the crime;
But, when we cover with a lie,
'Tis tinctur'd with a deeper dye.

He'd have more joy than at a feast,
Could he reduce this monstrous beast,
Who, for six thousand years, possess'd
A place in ev'ry human breast;
And, to that throne could truth restore,
That throne the monster held before.

If telling fibs we put an end to,
And simple truth alone attend to,
This useful practice brought about
Would drive all other evils out.
'Could I but plant this tree that's true,
Its branches might spread England through.'
That this fair scheme he best might thrive in,
Persuasion he preferr'd to driving;
Thought ministers were soul-protectors;
Men were not fond of pulpit Hectors;
Treated his flock with sermons sound,
Taken from Paul--'Let truth abound.'

He painted in a horrid view
Whatever should be said untrue:
'That man must always guard his tongue,
And never say the thing that's wrong;
For when he's number'd with the dead,
A vengeance falls upon his head;
Neither must he expect to thrive
For telling fibs while yet alive.
Nor must he only guard his own,
A care must be to others shown;
To let another speak untrue,
A weighty sin will follow you:
For instance; should another say,
'I will do so and so today,'
We never should be so absurd
To suffer him to break his word,
But aid, that he his word maintain,
Although we should a loss sustain.'

Whene'er a priest has preach'd his best,
Both he, and hearers, ought to rest.

THE SECOND PART

Most sound advice may be ill sped;
A witch's prayer is backward read.

The Sermon ended, people pleas'd,
And Priest, that he'd his conscience eas'd,
When, coming soberly from church,
A person stopp'd him in the porch;
'Accept of what I say as true,
This day, dear Sir, I'll dine with you.'
He seem'd a shabby suppliant sinner,
Who very seldom eat a dinner.

Consent was granted with a sigh
His doctrine he could not deny.

The fellow ate and drank at noon,
As if he could not fill up soon,
While the caught Priest, a little low,
Eat his own dinner but so so,
Concluding then, that fashion's best
Which lets a man invite his guest.

The dinner done; grace after meat
'Twas thought the stranger would retreat,
But, in that moment, he got up,
Cry'd, 'Sir, I'll stay with you and sup.'

The Parson now was rather vext,
Both at his sermon and his text,
But, by his doctrine must abide,
Therefore his tongue and hands were tied;
He visibly began to fear
His sentiments would cost him dear.

'Your supper, Sir, gives true delight,
I'll take a bed with you tonight.'

The Doctor his hard Fate bewail'd,
T'have such a legacy entail'd;
This fatal truth produc'd a frown,
A truth that almost knock'd him down;
A truth he no way could deny,
It hurt him more than would a lie;
But to no purpose did he moan,
The argument was still his own;
And though the stranger's bed was worst,
He slept much better than his host.

The Parson, and the morning too,
Both of them rose a little blue;
The stranger, I'd declare on oath,
Shew'd more serenity than both;
Then on the Doctor cast an eye,
'I'll have some breakfast by and by.'

The honest Priest began to fear
He'd have the stranger by the year;
For breakfast, dinner, supper, bed,
Were granted just as soon as said;
The moment was one favour o'er,
That very moment claim'd one more.

By some means he must end the strife,
Or he'll demand the Parson's wife,
And then what troubles we begin,
Our doctrine's adding sin to sin!
That weapon we should think the best
To serve the parson, as his guest,
Who careful watch'd the time to hit
When he should swallow the last bit;
For then he thought, without a doubt,
That, as the stranger's glass run out,
He might, by chance, prevent his power,
From being renew'd another hour.
He cry'd, as if 'twas to a foe,
'My friend, you shall this moment go.'

The stranger answer'd, with a stare,
'You shall go with me, I declare.'

The breakfast ended, they set out,
And walk'd a mile, or thereabout.
'I'll go no further,' says the Priest.
'I'll have your purse then,' says the guest.
'Then all the money shall be mine,'
Rejoin'd the resolute divine.

The purse and cash now part in peace,
Which, frequently, we find the case;
And, though they strive to meet again,
Their utmost efforts are in vain;
For, like the stranger to the Priest,
Will never more become his guest.

Half of them glad, but both obey,
They either take a different way.
The stranger shew'd the utmost wish
To hear a sermon just like this.
The Parson, as to'ards home he came,
Found his reflections not the same;
Review'd his conduct with a sigh,
His sentiments had run too high,
For though in theory they were right,
Yet practice gain'd but little by't.

Vile man! to vicious habits tending,
He scarcely thought him worth the mending.
What sermons preach'd! and preach'd in vain!
He's scarcely worth a drop of rain.
Though mighty sums have been expended,
That creature man's not one jot mended.

'The human mind is human still,
And must be so, do what he will;
Such doctrine I'll no more advance,
'Twill neither do for here or France;
In future I'll exert less pains,
And bound my utmost view with gains;
Like other priests I'll take the prey,
Like other flocks my own may stray.'