The Model of the New Religion

Whoop! Mr. Vicar in your flying frock?

What news at Babel now? how stands the Cock!

When wags the floud? no Ephimerides?

Nought but confounding of the languages?

No more of th’ Saints arival? or the chance

Of three pipes two pence and an ordinance?

How many Queer-Religions? clear your throat,

May a man have a peny-worth? four a groat?

Or do the Jansto leap at truss-a-fayle?

Three Tenents clap while five hang on the tayle?

No Querpo model? never a knack or wile?

To preach for Spoons and Whistles? cross or pile?

No hints of truth on foot? no sparks of grace?

No late sprung light? to dance the wilde-goose chase?

No Spiritual Dragoones that take their flames

From th’ inspiration of the City Dames?

No crums of comfort to relieve your cry?

No new dealt mince-meat of Divinity?

Come lets’s project: by the great late Eclipse

We justly fear a famine of the lips.

For Sprats are rose an Omer for a sowse,

Which gripes the conclave of the lower House.

Let’s therefore vote a close humiliation

For opening the seal’d eyes of this blind Nation,

That they may see confessingly, and swear

They have not seen at all this fourteen year;

And for the splints and spavins too, tis said

All the joynts have the Riffcage, since the head

Swell’d so prodigious, and exciz’d the parts

From all Allegiance, but in tears and hearts.

But zealous Sir, what say to a touch at Prayer?

How Quops the spirit? In what garb or ayre?

With Souse erect, or pendent, winks, or haws?

Sniveling? or the extention of the jaws?

Devotion has its mode: Dear Sir, hold forth,

Learning’s a venture of the second worth.

For since the peoples rise and its sad fall,

We are inspir’d from much, to none at all.

Brother adieu! I see y’are closely girt,

A costive Dover gives the Saints the squirt.

Hence (Reader) all our flying news contracts

Like the States Fleet, from the Seas into Acts:

But where’s the Model all this while, you’ll say

’Tis like the Reformation, run away.