ay
Such _rotten Saints_, who wou'd conceal
Their _Fraud_ beneath the Name of _Zeal_!
Who, mask'd with _spurious Piety_,
Trample on _Reason_, _Truth_, and _Thee_,
And, while their hot Career they run,
Tread on the _Gospel_ of thy Son!
Who, feigning to adore, make Thee
A _Tyrant-God_ of Cruelty!
As if thy _right Hand_ did contain
Only an Universe of Pain,
_Hell_ and _Damnation_ in thy _Left_,
Of ev'ry gracious Gift bereft,
Hence raining Floods of Grief and Woes,
On those that never were thy Foes,
Ordaining Torments for the doom
Of Infants, yet within the Womb:
By fifty false Devices more,
Which _Reason_ never heard before,
And _Methodists_ alone cou'd dream,
Thy boundless _Goodness_ they blaspheme!
Who (tho' our _Saviour_'s gracious Plan
Was to teach Happiness to Man,
By _friendly Arguments_ to win
The World from Slavery to Sin;
For He, who all Things knows, well knew,
That they to Duty are more true,
Who from a _filial Love_ obey,
And serve for _Gratitude_, than they
Who from a _coward Dread of Law_
Owe all their _Virtue_ to their _Awe_;
Who, tho' they seem so true, and just,
So strictly faithful to their Trust,
Will, if you take the _Gallows_ down,
Out-pilfer half the _Rogues_ in _Town_).
With saucy boldness will presume
To pass th' impenetrable gloom,
And lift the Curtain which we see
Is drawn betwixt the World and Thee;
Of nought but endless Torments speak,
To frighten and appall the weak;
Dwell on the horrid Theme with glee,
And fain themselves wou'd _Hangmen_ be;
With so much _Dread_ their _Hearers_ fill,
That they have neither _Pow'r_, nor _Will_,
Tho' _Heav'n_'s the Prize, to move a Hand,
But _shuddering_ and _trembling_ stand.

Quench the hot Flame, O God, that burns,
And _Piety_ to _Phrenzy_ turns!
Let not thy _holy Name_ be made
A _Cloak_ to hide a _pilf'ring Trade_!
Nor suffer that thy _sacred Word_,
Be turn'd to _Rhapsody absurd_!
Let it not serve, like _Magic Sticks_,
To preface _pious Jugglers'_ Tricks!
Root, root from _Earth_, these baneful weeds,
That choak _Religion_'s _wholesome Seeds_!
Give them the headlong Winds to bear,
And scatter in a desart Air!
Grind them to Powder, that no more
They sprout and grow as heretofore!
Burn the rank stal