On Mother Griffiths

The race of critics, till of late, were grac'd With reading, learning, judgment, sense, and taste: And none e'er dar'd usurp that noble name, But who, as authors, had establish'd fame; By envy never, nor by spite misled, And, tho' strict judges, they were still well-bred: But now, oh shame to Britain, and the muse! Dame Griffiths writes her infamous Reviews, Who to no requisite can make pretence Of learning, genius, judgment, taste, or sense; Yet with the rancour of a cursed elf, She damns all works—but what she prints herself: Thus modern Methodists, with foolish pride, Save their own sect, and deem all damn'd beside; To cobler-parsons weaver-priests succeed, And preach that Gospel which they cannot read.