Whilst curb'd and check'd by his imperious reign,
We must be satisfied, and not complain.
Complaints are libels, as the present age
Are all instructed by a law-wise sage,
Who, happy in his eloquence and fees,
Advances to preferment by degrees;
Trembles to think of such a daring step,
As from a tool to Chancellor to leap :
But lest his prudence should the law disgrace,
He keeps a longing eye upon the mace.
Whilst Bute was suffer'd to pursue his plan,
And ruin freedom as he rais'd his clan,
Could not his pride, his universal pride,
With working undisturb'd be satisfied?
But when we saw the villainy and fraud,

What conscience but a Scotchman's could applaud?
But yet 'twas nothing cheating in our sight,

We should have humm'd ourselves and thought them right.

This faith, establish'd by the mighty Thane,

Will long outlive that system of the Dane :

This faith-but now the number must be brief,
All human things are center'd in belief;
And (or the philosophic sages dream)
Nothing is really so as it may seem.
Faith is a glass to rectify our sight,

And teach us to distinguish wrong from right:

By this corrected Bute appears a Pitt,

And candour marks the lines which Murphy writ.

Then let this faith support our ruin'd cause,
And give us back our liberties and laws.
No more complain of fav'rites made by lust,
No more think Chatham's patriot reasons just,
But let the Babylonish harlot see,

You to her Baal bow the humble knee.
Lost in the praises of the fav'rite Scot,
My better theme, my Newton, was forgot.
Blest with a pregnant wit, and never known
To boast of one impertinence his own,
He warp'd his vanity to serve his God,
And in the paths of pious fathers trod.

Though genius might have started something new,
He honour'd lawn, and prov'd his scripture true;
No literary worth presum'd upon,

He wrote the understrapper of St. John,

Unravell'd ev'ry mystic simile,

Rich in the faith, and fanciful as me;
Pull'd Revelation's sacred robes aside,
And saw what priestly modesty should hide;
Then seiz'd the pen, and with a good intent,
Discover'd hidden meanings never meant.
The reader who, in carnal notions bred,
Has Athanasius without rev'rence read,
Will make a scurvy kind of lenten-feast
Upon the tortur'd offals of the beast:
But if in happy superstition taught,

He never once presum'd to doubt in thought;

Like Catcott, lost in prejudice and pride,
He takes the literal meaning for his guide.
Let him read Newton, and his bill of fare-
What prophesies unprophesied are there!
In explanation he's so justly skill'd,
The pseudo-prophet's myst'ries are fulfill'd;
No superficial reasons have disgrac'd
The worthy prelate's sacerdotal taste;
No flaming arguments he holds in view,
Like Camplin he affirms it, and 'tis true.
Faith, Newton, is the tott'ring churchman's crutch,
On which our blest religion builds so much;
Thy fame would feel the loss of this support,
As much as Sawny's instruments at court:
For secret services, without a name,

And myst'ries in religion are the same.
But to return to state, from whence the muse
In wild digression smaller themes pursues,
And rambling from his grace's magic rod,
Descends to lash the ministers of God.
Both are adventures perilous and hard,
And often bring destruction on the bard ;
For priests and hirelings, ministers of state,
Are priests in love, infernals in their hate.
The church, no theme for satire, scorns the lash,

And will not suffer scandal in a dash.

Not Bute, so tender in his spotless fame;

Not Bute, so careful of his lady's name.

Has sable lost its virtue? will the bell

No longer send a straying sprite to hell?
Since souls, when animate with life, are sold
For benefices, bishopricks, and gold;

Since mitres, nightly laid upon the breast,
Can charm the nightman, conscience, into rest,
And learn'd exorcists very lately made
Greater improvements in the living trade;
Since Warburton (of whom in future rhymes)
Has settled reformation on the times,

Whilst from the teeming press his numbers fly,
And, like his reasons, just exist and die;
Since in the steps of clerical degree
All through the telescope of fancy see;
Though fancy under reason's lash may fall,
Yet fancy in religion's all in all.

Amongst the cassock'd worthies is there one
Who has the conscience to be Freedom's son?
Horne, patriotic Horne, will join the cause,
And tread on mitres to procure applause.
Prepare thy book, and sacerdotal dress,
To lay a walking spirit of the press,
Who knocks at midnight at his lordship's door,
And roars in hollow voice, a hundred more.
A hundred more his rising lordship cries,
Astonishment and terror in his eyes:

A hundred more-by G-d, I wo'nt comply:
Give, quoth the voice, I'll raise a hue and cry;

In a wrong scent the leading beagle's gone,
Your interrupted measures may go on ;
Grant what I ask, I'll witness to the Thane
I'm not another Fanny of Cock-lane.
Enough, says Mungo, reassume the quill,
And what I can afford to give I will.
When Bute, the ministry, and people's head
With royal favour pension'd Johnson dead,
The muse in undeserv'd oblivion sunk,
Was read no longer, and the man was drunk.
Some blockhead, ever envious of his fame,
Massacred Shakspeare in the doctor's name:
The pulpit saw the cheat, and wonder'd not-
Death is of all mortality the lot.

Kenrick had wrote his elegy, and penn'd

A piece of decent praise for such a friend;

And universal catcalls testified

How mourn'd the critics when the genius died.

But now, though strange the fact to deists seem, His ghost is risen in a venal theme!

And emulation madden'd all the Row,

To catch the strains which from a spectre flow,

And print the reason of a bard deceas'd
Who once gave all the town a weekly feast.
As beer to ev'ry drinking purpose dead,

Is to a wondrous metamorphose led,
And open'd to the action of the winds,

In vinegar a resurrection finds,