His Looks most primitively wear
An ancient Abrahamick Ayre;
And, like bad Copies of a Face,
The good Original disgrace :
A Hawks-bill Nofe divides his Cheeks,
And tunes his Cant whene'er he speaks,
Whilft on his Breast one Hand he lays,
That Fools may credit what he says;
Tho' Int'reft always bribes his Tongue,
To reprefent Things right or wrong,
And is the Loadstone that attracts
The Saint to all he fpeaks or acts.
As Beauty draws the am'rous Youth
To fwear repugnant to the Truth,
And, Zealot like, to grace his Lyes
With upcaft Looks and feigned Sighs.
His Head ftands mounted on a Neck As ftubborn as a Poft or Stake, That will not fuff'r 'im to bow down To Altar, Mitre, or the Crown,
Affirming ftifly, they're no more
Than Trappings of the Scarlet Whore:
Yet has a Joint that always bends,
When 'tis to gain his own bie Ends.
Thus when there's nothing to be got,
Submiffion is a deadly Fau't;
But upon e'ery new occafion,
When Int'reft is the grand temptation
Then Confcience gives a difpenfation.
His Coat, whofe Colour is moft grave
Yet carries in its Sleeve a Knave;
Tho' new, derives its ancient Fashion
From good old Times of Reformation,
When Blunderbus and Basket-Hilt
More Blood than Fire and Faggot spilt,
And Zealots, by Diffention Civil
Got th'uper-hand of Pope and Devil.
His Hat, whofe Paint-house Brims fecure
His formal Weeds from rainy Show'r,
Hangs on his Occiput most quaintly,
To make the Knave appear more faintly,
And from the fight of Back Beholders, Skreens his long Neck and ftooping
His Hair in greefy Locks hangs down
'As ftrait as Candles, from his Crown,
And shades the Borders of his Face,
Whofe outwards Signs of inward Grace
Are only visible in spightful
Grimaces very ftern, and frightful;
'As if he thought no Man could be
A zealous Foe to Popery,
Except his Looks declare his Malice
To Altar, Candlesticks and Chalice.
The Band he wears is very broad,
Exceeding far the common Mode,
Juft fuch as Kniperdolin wore
On Doublet-Collar heretofore,
When e'ry Madman that could cant
Of Saving-Grace, was thought a Saint,
Provided he could cry aloud
But Reformation to the Crowd,
That fome Arch Villian by his Craft,
Like Nol, might raise himself aloft,
And under that deceitful Curfe
Of mending, make all Matters worse;
As Tinkers, when they undertake
To stop one Hole, two bigger make.
That e'ry piece of Work may end
In something that is new to mend.
His Head is full of Fears and Fictions, HisConfcience form'd of Contradictions, Is therefore never long content With any Church or Government, But fancies e'ery thing that is, For want of mending, much amiss. So confequentially would vary All things to fomething quite contrary, As if he thinks, whate'er we crave Is better far than what we have; And therefore ftill is disagreeing With e'ery thing that is in being.
Thus, like the Moon that's always
Seems deftin'd to perpetual changing,
And restless as the fublune Tide,
In crooked Channels loves to glide.
His ftubborn Pride and zealous Folly Arife from Temper melancholy, Which in his Looks imprint a Sadness, That fhews him near ally'd to Madness: Therefore he does not chuse or cull His Faith by any Scripture Rule ; But by the Vapours that torment His Brains, from Hyprocondria fent, Which into Dreams and Visions turn, And make his Zeal fo fircely burn, That Reason lofes the afcendant, And all within grows independant. So when the Lees of Ale or Wine Condenfe below, the Liquor's fine;
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