Classic Poem

A Modern Saint! What is that monstious Thing?
Friend to Sedition, Flatterer of his King,
Brother to Envy, subtle Sacan's Son,
Hair to those Ills his Serpent Sire begun;
Without a Vizard, by his meagre Face,
Within a Devil, varnish'd o'er with Grace;
Dull, proud, imperious, ignorant, and grave,
In Pow'r a Tyrant, when reduc'd, a Slave;
An envious Hypocrite, that prays and whines
At good Mens Welfare, more than for his Sins;
Fond of Dissention, does the Church bely,
And in distracting Tempests, soars most high;
Uses Religion to disguise his Fraud,
And serves himself thereby, but not his God;
Prays loud, and often with a Conscience foul,
More in regard to Int'rest than his Soul;
A quaint Dissembler, who does pious seem,
Not to gain Heav'n, but win the World's Esteem:
In wicked Crimes the Zealot thrives a-pace,
Like poys'nous Hemlock, o'er the wholesome Grass:
And as he shoots, and makes the greater Show,
Like nauseous Weeds, he does the ranker grow;
Spreads and Impov'rishes his native Ground,
And stints the nobler Herbs that fade around.
A Nettle in the Soil, that sprouts too fast,
And, deeply rooting, lays the Garden waste,
O'er runs our fruitful Eden by Degrees,
And drains the Sap from useful Plants and Trees.
So hungry Ling each gen'rous Grain will choak,
And Ivy, to 'its Ruin, hugs the Oak.
But, O! that we cou'd see that pow'rful Hand,
That plants so many Lawrels, weed our Land,
Then might we hope, the peaceful Palm wou'd grow,
And flourish, as Geneva Thorns do now;
But since our lofty Pines must be remov'd,
And worthless Thistles in their Room improv'd;
Whilst such rank Weeds are cherish'd and manur'd,
The Plagues we suffer must remain uncur'd.