All danger past, in Greece , I'm hither come,
Post haste, to have one timely stroke, at Rome .
Papists! have at ye — slaves of superstition!
I'll rack the rackers — in my Inquisition .

When (in return for tricks , your priests have show'd us)
We burn th' all-burning Pope , for ballance ow'd us,
Rome , says we PERSECUTE — Oh! front amazing!

She — that so oft, set Smithfield fires a-blazing!
We — roast a Pope of straw — for recreation, —
She — LUMPS us to the Devil — and roasts the N ATION .
Dark, sowre, proud, bloody, — turbulent and vain!
Bodies , and S OULS , must burn — or bear her chain.

P REACHING , or plotting — R OME'S true plan is P OWER :
Blessing , she ROBS ! — and worships — to DEVOUR !
B LOOD is her taste — Religion — her DISGUISE :
Her sons are MURD'RERS — and her Saints — are L IES :
Faith's alchymist! renown'd for TRANSMUTATION ,
She finds rank HERESY — in REFORMATION .

O H ! what obsequious babes imbibe her lectures!
No busy searchers , they! no bold suspectors!
Pliant believers! they, by wholesale , swallow:
And, like tame geese — (implicit cacklers!) follow.
Thought, truth, sense, S CRIPTURE — all — are guides, that STRAY .
Nothing , forsooth's INFALLIBLE — but THEY !

Ask this Church Cockatrice , what RIGHT it crows by,
D ARKNESS , you'll find, is all the light , it goes by.
Hoodwink'd; at whooper's hide , to hunt salvation ,
They guard their back-held nose from DEMONSTRATION .
With force resistless , faith's disputes they handle,
And cut short wrangling — by bell, book, and candle .
Meekness their cant — humility their skreening —
P RIDE their true deity — and F IRE — their meaning .
Brimstone and flames , CHOAK Heaven's high road to glory ,
And parbotl pilgrim's tails — in purgatory .

Sings a poor Girl? — (save with some crown-cropt brother )
Down goes she, unabsolv'd — 'midst smoke and smother:
Spite of her horse-hair smocks , and straps of leather ,
Hot, half-way fires must singe — the lord knows whither.
Heavens! — how we players should feast their well-fed fury —
If Purgatory's hundreds reach'd — to D RURY !

Oh, Britons! 'tis no joke — REPELL th' assaulters .
Let no prig POPERY e'er be-farce your altars ;
Bravely disdaining slav'ry e'en to P RINCES ,
Freedom's fierce horse, at a P OPE rider WINCES ,
Proud of the manag'd bit — when law directs it;
But skakes it from his teeth — when force injects it.

B LESS'D be our King , forever bless'd our church!
Pure church! that lov'st no pomp , and fears no search!
Long , by contempt of Rome's proud mummery , fir'd,
Be thy plain truths, and honest zeal, admir'd:
Long live the faith — that holds not reason DEAF !
But saves by virtue — and dissects belief!
Builds, on strong, moral R OCK — loves decent F ORM ,
Preaches internal peace — and stills each STORM ,
Trusts heaven — with aweful hope — and holds it ODD ,
By man's dark passions — to decypher God .