The Tabernacle

You, perhaps, have not heard, that the Countess of Grace, Has built a new Methodist house at this place; You may chance to be sav'd, if you hither should come, By a Cobler, a Taylor, a Tinker, or Groom. The first (for of late you have often been dull) Will mend up that fractur'd old saucepan, your skull; The second will botch up the hole in your heart, Which was rent by Miss Nancy—when forc'd to depart; The third, to preserve your poor soul give his all; The fourth will well litter you up in a stall, Will bridle your conscience, and saddle your soul, And water your faith in a Whitsieldite bowl: So, 'tween one and t'other, you'll unleav'n become, And be rubb'd into bliss by a heavenly groom. Religion of old did the wisest confound, But now it's as clear as four crowns to a pound: Arithmetic-like are all matters reveal'd That so shamefully lay to past ages concealed; By tropes, or by figures we're all set to right, And the cloud is expell'd that secluded the light: If you'll patiently read it, I'll try to rehearse, A methodist sermon—but take it in verse, That was preach'd by a taylor—believe me 'tis true, They call'd him a Christian—he look'd like a Jew; His semblance bespoke him as sordid a dog, As ever was seen at a Jew's Synagogue; And thus he began to expound, and to preach, Tho' he never was master of one part of speech:

" My sisters and brothers, who hither come crying, Whose practice is nothing but swearing and lying, Is it heaven you seek, your journey pursue, You'll never get there—I'll be d—d if you do, Except you set off on the wings of religion, For religion's a dove, and a dove is a pidgeon: Then daily come here, on your marrowbones fall, Ask me but for wings, and I'll pidgeon you all: And if you would live, if you never would die, Say, what can support you like sweet charity? On charity's wings you will fly up to heaven, I will venture to lay you twelve groats to eleven; Then pull out your purses, and give to the poor, See, Peter stands starving to death at the door; Ah! don't deny Peter, tho' Peter denied His master, when once he in trouble espied, And saw him surrounded in imminent danger, He told a great fib, and he call'd him a stranger. 'Ere crows the next cock, you will all deny me, I know by your faces I plainly can see; I've not in the plate yet a penny heard fall, Mark this! you'll be damn'd, ev'ry cock of you all; And can't you afford it, have you no avocation? Say no: oh, that no, is a sweet palliation! Why don't you contribute? or have you not any? Had you rather be damn'd, than you'd part with a penny? You that here come with your faces so meek, Who worship old Mammon the rest of the week, Some selling of one thing, or making another, By cheating, and lying, and tricking, his brother, Each makes up a purse, then comes to this place, All hoping to drink of the fountain of grace. You'd be glad of some faith, for you hav'nt a jot, And do you not find your poor tongues very hot? Of faith, or of grace, not a drop left to cool ye, Because you will let that old Beelzebub rule ye: But he that a penny to Peter shall pay, I'll give him a bucket of faith ev'ry day: He that feeds daily on conserves and pickles, And every hour his appetite tickles, He little now thinketh, because he lives well, What a pickle he'll be in, when burning in hell; When bathing in brimstone as hot as a heater, He'll then wish he'd given his penny to Peter. I've touch'd you, then, have I?—I've touch'd to the quick! You'd forgot, then, that cunning old soulcatcher, Nick: You did not then know of his fiery lakes, How he spreads out his nets, and what trouble he takes; Like a bird-catcher sitting, conceal'd in a ditch, As sly as a sox, and as foul as a witch; Just like to that sauc'ress, that wicked offender, You've often heard talk'd of, the old witch of Endore; But I'll be your Generalissimo, I, All his nets and his brimstone I dare to desy; This book is my shield, and my tongue is my spear, I'll send him away with a flea in his ear."

When this he had said, I could not stay longer, My apprehensions grew stronger and stronger, Then out at the door I judiciously sneak'd, 'Twas a thousand to one but my pocket was pick'd. I plainly could see thro' the farcical joke, The preacher was clad in a mystical cloak: By snaring my heart, and by blinding my eyes, He thought to deceive me in holy disguise.