THE Way to HEAVEN in a String.  
OR, Mr. A—'s Argument BURLESQUED.  
A POEM.  
CANTO I.  
LONDON, Printed for A. Baldwin, in Warwick-Lane. MDCC.   

To the READER.  
WE have of late been entertained with many pretty Whimms in Divinity; but this the finest of them all: A Religious Piece of Knight-Errantry, to which if I said any thing at all, I thought it must be in Burlesque; for the Humour is comical enough. Pity it is this wondrous Man had not lived in the Infancy of Time, and taught poor Mortals this Lesson, ' ere Death for so many Thousands of Years had ravaged the habitable parts of the World, and glutted itself with the Spoils of Mankind. The Scythe of Death had then a long time ago been rusty and useless, and the Sands in the Glass of Time had run to no purpose. But we of these latter Ages of the World must have the only Advantage of his Project, who will not go out of the World in the Common Road of his Neighbours; but in a manner peculiar to himself, Hinc Itur ad Astra.  
Bootatus & Spurratus ire ad Coelum; Away mounts our Friend John, and leaves this declining World lessening out of sight.  
These are the first Lines that ever I attempted in Doggerel, and according to their reception in the World perhaps may be the last. The Design will bear a great many more; and my Lines flow as the Learned Dr. Bunyan says of his, 
They came to mine own Heart, thence to my Head,  
Thence to my Finger's ends they trickeled;  
Thence to my Pen, and then immediately  
On Paper I did drible it daintily.    

Mr. A—'s ARGUMENT BURLESQUED.  

THERE are some things are counted Real,  
In which we Mortals do agree all:  
Things formed by cunning Allegories  
We do account to be mere Stories.  
Some write of Fights of Mice and Frogs,  
And others prate of Mastiff Dogs:  
One has the Fairy Queen espied,  
And told the Tale, as if he lied,  
Of Tib and Tom, and Mib and Mab,  
Names ne'er attained by Poet Squab.  
But while such Fools do please men's Fancies  
With idle Cantos of Romances,  
I'll tell you of a greater Knight  
Then e'er made Love, or moved in Fight.   

He neither was a Priest nor Parson,  
Or Warriors Saddle laid his Arse on;  
Yet in Divinity Profound,  
He could great Sophisters confound;  
Knew difference 'twixt the Jews and Turks,  
And had read Learned Bunyan's Works;  
Had Brooks his Golden Pippins read,  
And by the wiser Folk 'tis said,  
He can as learnedly dispute  
As Parson Keith, or famed Giles Shute.  
He sagely in his Youth foresaw  
That Truth's Divine need Props of Law,  
To study which he did adhere,  
And in't became a Barister:  
He something else at length became,  
An Office got I must not name;  
Ne Suitor ultra Crepidam.   

He never bowed his stubborn Knee  
In any Feats of Chivalry,  
Despising such Knight-Errantry,  
Where People for the very nonce  
Do fracture one another's Bones;  
As Bullocks fight in Marshes fed,  
To try which has the hardest Head.  
He never loved the dismal Sounds  
Of murdering Guns, of Blood and Wounds:  
He still abhorred the frightful Sight,  
The sad effect of cruel Fight.  
He never got a broken Head,  
Or for a Wound had Plaster spread;  
Had no mischance in any Points,  
To dislocate his nimble Joints,  
But such Disasters as befall  
In Battles Metaphysical;  
Which, though securing Head and Snout,  
Do craze the Brains, not beat 'em out.   

By a deep insight in Religion  
He found how Mahomet, and his Pigeon,  
Did fly from hence to blessed Abodes,  
Translated to the very Gods;  
With every Pinion not unhinged,  
And not one Feather of 'em singed.  
In sacred Scripture he had read  
How Enoch and Elijah fled  
To Heaven by Faith, and in their flying  
Disdained the Common way of Dying,  
Which does Mankind in Thraldom fetter,  
Only because they know no better.  
He and his Printer did agree  
To set men from this Bondage free;  
And now Sir Knight has got a Squire,  
As fit as e'er he could desire:  
To preach this Doctrine would be vain,  
Disturb the Head, and Lungs would strain.  
Let Parsons preach, and Clerks go whilstle,  
They'll do the business by Epistle,  
Which has of late gained Proselytes  
Of Tolandists and Asgilites,  
Who form new Articles Divine,  
Exceeding far our Thirty nine.   

In London Town there's scarcely found  
One Corner of that fertile Ground,  
Which does not to the Age afford  
New Sects all founded on the Word,  
Who like Logicians do dispute,  
And one another still confute;  
All of 'em Orthodox, and all  
Alike are Apostolical.  
But though they make such zealous pother,  
Some do thrive better than the other;  
As Plants more generous are found  
To flourish best in fattest Ground:  
Some tall ones scatter do their Seed,  
And new ones do as Maggots breed;  
Whilst these to height are always shoving,  
Some others only are improving.  
St. Paul's scarce outdoes Salters-Hall,  
Tho its high Roof be far more tall:  
Octavo Band, and Cloak Divine,  
As Folio Cassock is as fine:  
The little Roundhead looks as big  
As Bishop in his powdered Wig.  
And eke a wondrous Reformation  
Is happened in this godly Nation.  
After a many stubborn Greetings,  
The King is prayed for in the Meetings,  
That he may live long in the Nation;  
Of public Funds a long duration:  
For these no King did e'er adore,  
But what increased their private Store.  
Pardon, good Reader, I digress,  
'Tis common in Pindaric Verse,  
And eke in this it must be too,  
If I but please to make it so;  
And I, without a Reason for't,  
Will make 'em long, or cut 'em short.  
Poets are Princes in their Station,  
Although they govern not the Nation;  
No man their Power did yet dispute,  
But always held 'em absolute.   

Now had Sir Knight his Brain employed  
How he might conquer, and avoid  
Old Death, that cunning subtle Fox,  
Who lays Mankind in Earthy Stocks:  
Says he, good Squire, 'tis but folly  
To sit thus pensive, melancholy;  
Put but my Notions into print,  
We'll conquer Death, or Devil's in't.  
I am Robustick, though I'm Civil,  
And grown a Match even for the Devil.  
The Crooked Serpent, who by Lying  
Entices Mankind into Dying,  
So far does foolish Men deceive,  
They cannot the dull Custom leave.  
Had they but Faith, they need not die,  
Like Enoch might ad Astra fly,  
And view the Regions of the Sky.   

But here the Squire to Knight replied,  
You have not yet your Notion tried:  
Your mighty Faith your Sense enthralls,  
'Tis Philosophically false;  
For what is born must surely die,  
Or else Philosophers do lie:  
All that is nourished is unstable,  
And is revera corruptible;  
And Death, deciding of the strife,  
Is but Corruption of our Life.  
You must not Notions, Sir, espouse  
That do the Bonds of Nature lose,  
And with such vehemence dispute 'em,  
When every Churchyard does confute ' 'em.  
Besides, Sir, where is your Protection  
Against received Resurrection?  
For it appears to all the Wise,  
If we don't die we shall not rise.  
You may for this be brought in Court,  
And there be made to answer for't;  
They'll use you there like any Dog,  
When you're once seized by Robin Hog:  
For, Sir, the Liberty to scribble  
Allows you not at Church to nibble;  
And there I'll leave you in the lurch,  
When you plant Cannons ' 'gainst the Church.  
Such things as these would whilom tear you,  
In the late Reign of Great Rogero:  
Not that Rogero of great Note,  
Of whom Orlando justly wrote,  
Who with Alcyna did discourse  
By Assignations of Amours;  
But that Rogero which did fill  
The World with Observators ill;  
Who such ill Tenants to redress,  
Was made Oppressor of the Press;  
Who tho he's outed of his Reign,  
His Squire's Power does still remain.   

To this replied the Doughty knight,  
Thou shalt not me with Fancies fright.  
Nought that's heroic, or that's rare-a,  
But was achieved by Great Don Zara,  
Whose Actions gave his Name a Hogo,  
He got the Title of Del Fogo;  
And though he was a man of Valour,  
He oft was squeezed by Fortune's squalor;  
And Sancho too (his Fates be thanked)  
Was sadly tossed in a Blanket:  
Yet these did ne'er repine at Fate,  
To keep off Blow would scarce guard Pate.  
I will encounter Jews and Turks,  
Defy the Devil and his Works,  
Both thy Rogero, and his Squire,  
And their Ecclesiastic Fire.  
Roger belonged unto that Priesthood  
Which never yet did do the least good:  
He was a Light to the Dark-Lanthorns,  
Which neither Sockets have, nor han't Horns.  
If these my Notions do molest,  
It's Persecution, Sir, at best;  
Of modern date a Law too saith,  
No man shall suffer for his Faith.   

Here did the Squire long stand amazed,  
And after on the Knight had gazed;  
Quoth he, it is not Persecution,  
When against you in execution:  
Our Laws do only favour weak  
And Infant Christians, who can't take  
The stronger Meats; but you are strong,  
Almost Omnipotent in wrong.  
Your self-applauding Vanity  
Is mere downright Profanity:  
You know a wondrous deal of Faith,  
But not one word the Scripture saith.  
'Tis true, good Enoch and Eliah  
Alive to Saints above did fly-a;  
And this was done by Faith and Prayer,  
But neither of 'em was a Lawyer;  
They of Canary took no Doses,  
Nor tippled Claret at the Rose:  
They in their Lives were exemplary,  
Seldom or never did miscarry.  
We can't in you like Faith believe,  
Unless you like Example give.   

Quoth Knight, my Friend, thou'rt very dull,  
Good God Full fill thy empty Scull.  
Those Tenants which from Faith arise,  
To Mortal Men are Mysteries:  
It is not likely they should know  
The way translated Men do go;  
They cannot see the upper Skies,  
Because they look with dying Eyes;  
They can no more such Truth unriddle  
Than Story of the Bear and Fiddle,  
Was sung, but broke off in the middle.  
As for my way of living, would  
It were as pious Enoch's good.  
But here, my Friend, you do me banter;  
For you do know I am no Ranter:  
Although for Grace I don't much stickle,  
And sigh and groan at Conventicle;  
With little Band am seldom found,  
Or Locks are circumcised round;  
Yet though I do not cant and pray,  
I am not half so lewd as they:  
And Godly Looks do ne'er impart  
The secret Treasure of the Heart,  
Which, if it does once entertain  
Vile Thoughts, Religion is but vain.  
I in a Band could look as grave  
As any Conventicle Knave,  
Could wring my Chaps into Grimaces,  
And make a hundred Godly Faces,  
Could sit as dull as any Log,  
And grunt and groan like any Hog;  
But these are odd sorts of Religions,  
Contrived by Knaves for foolish Wigeons;  
May be for them a Godly Fashion,  
But are not fitted for Translation.  
All my Disciples must be airy,  
And dance as nimble as a Fairy,  
Must never think of sordid Dying,  
But practice must the Art of Flying.   
The End of the first Canto.