Classic Poem

Beside he was a shrewd Philosopher,
And had read every text and gloss over:
What e'er the crabbed'st author hath
He understood b'implicit Faith,
What ever Sceptick could inquire for;
For every why he had a wherefore;
Knew more than forty of them do,
As far as words and terms could go.
All which he understood by rote,
And as occasion served, would quote;
No matter whether right or wrong:
They might be either said or sung.
His notions fitted things so well,
That which was which he could not tell;
But oftentimes mistook th' one
For th' other, as great clerks have done.
He could reduce all things to Acts,
And knew their Natures by Abstracts,
Where Entity and Quiddity
The Ghosts of defunct Bodies fly;
Where Truth in Person does appear,
Like words congealed in Northern Air.
He knew what's what, and that's as high
As Metaphysick Wit can fly.
In School Divinity as able
As he that hight Irrefragable;
Profound in all the Nominal
And real ways beyond them all;
And with as delicate a hand,
Could twist as tough a rope of sand,
And weave fine cobwebs, fit for skull
That's empty when the moon is full;
Such as take lodgings in a head
That's to be let unfurnished.
He could raise scruples dark and nice,
And after solve 'em in a trice:
As if Divinity had catched
The itch, of purpose to be scratched;
Or, like a mountebank, did wound
And stab her self with doubts profound,
Only to show with how small pain
The sores of faith are cured again;
Although by woeful proof we find,
They always leave a scar behind.
He knew the seat of Paradise,
Could tell in what degree it lies:
And as he was disposed, could prove it,
Below the moon, or else above it.
What Adam dreamt of when his bride
Came from her closet in his side:
Whether the Devil tempted her
By a High Dutch interpreter:
If either of them had a navel;
Who first made music malleable:
Whether the Serpent at the fall
Had cloven feet, or none at all.
All this without a gloss or comment,
He would unriddle in a moment:
In proper terms, such as men smatter
When they throw out and miss the matter.
For his Religion it was fit
To match his learning and his wit:
'Twas Presbyterian true blue,
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of Errant Saints, whom all men grant
To be the true Church Militant:
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of Pike and Gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible Artillery;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By Apostolic Blows and Knocks;
Call Fire and Sword and Desolation,
A godly-thorough-Reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done:
As if Religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A Sect, whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss:
More peevish, cross, and splenetic,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick.
That with more care keep Holy-day
The wrong, than others the right way:
Compound for Sins, they are inclined to;
By damning those they have no mind to;
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipped God for spite,
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for.
Free-will they one way disavow,
Another, nothing else allow.
All Piety consists therein
In them, in other men all Sin.