A CANTO TO A CANTER: OR, The Pulpits Complaint.  

ROom for a Canter in Religion's guise,  
With Cambrick-band, long Cloak, and cockt-up Eyes.  
Who can with piteous Tears and Cries beguile,  
Surer than does th' Egyptian-Crocodile,  
Yet at's gulled Audience, in his sleeve does smile.  
Whose Prayers, in such rude lowdness still are said,  
As if the God was deaf, to which he prayed.  
Unto whose Iron-lungs and throat of brass,  
But a small-reed, loud Stentor's windpipe was.  
Who like the Ocean when the winds do blow,  
Does from soft murmurs, into roaring grow,  
And nothing forth but mire and dirt does throw.  
You'd think the Sea had taught him how to pray,  
He roars and beats his Desk, the selfsame way,  
With brinish foam, washing his Cushion o'er,  
Then falling back for zeal he can't do more.  
As if the Pulpit were of Walnut-tree,  
He beats it, that more fruitful it may be.  
Whilst his Religious thrashing in his Cloak  
Doth like th' Egyptian Copties Service look,  
Who never in their Churches sit or kneel,  
But in the painfull'st postures worship still.  
But now the Glass is turned, and Hems make way,  
And bid the Brotherhood prepare to Pray.  
And now with face so sour he does appear,  
As if he'd been Baptised in Vinegar;  
Or as his Looks should some resemblance hold  
With the Jews bitter Sacrifice of old.  
Into such Mimick-postures he does screw  
His face, enough to make his Audience spew.  
Now does the tedious Exercise commence,  
Where canting Phrase proclaims his Eloquence,  
And rudely Elbows out poor modest Sense.  
For the first long half hour, like Herald he,  
How great he is, acquaints the Deity.  
Then with their Sins they are severely doused,  
And in Repentance pickle sharply soused.  
The Glass still run, but it did run so slow,  
Thought I, Time flies not here, it scarce doth go.  
With Head declined, I did for sleep compose,  
Having of's Opium took too large a Dose.  
Can they not better Watch than Peter keep,  
The t'other Glass had laid them all to sleep.  
By his long-Prayer I did conclude, that he  
Was of that Sect the Jews called Pharisee,  
Both old Acquaintance of Hypocrisy.  
Six Staves of Hopkins beat me up at length,  
But praised be Morpheus, I had gained new strength  
To hear the Sermon, which I don't retain,  
The Sour sowed such lamentable grain,  
Yet of their barrenness did still complain.  
Strong was his Desk, else it had surely been  
Crushed to the ground, by his grand load of Sin.  
Who to be Learned thought, fathers a Lie  
On Austin, Bernard, and St. Hillary.  
And when he aims at Sense, doth always vent  
More foolish Bulls, than e'er the Popedom sent  
Into the World; nor ever Sermon makes,  
But straight turns Vagrant, and the Text forsakes.  
Something of Alms and Bounty he did Preach,  
Things by Example which he ne'er will teach;  
Those fruits he'd have, only i'th' People's reach.  
The only lesson which I bore from thence,  
Was, that A Mad Dog's Medicine's Patience.   
FINIS.