Classic Poem

He's the reverse of all he seems to be,
And still pursues whate'er he seems to flee.
So Satan's self seems beautiful when drest
In Samuel's mantle, or a cherub's vest.
His vice is real, but his virtue paint;
Within a devil, and without a saint.
While heavenly calms dwell on his pious face,
And while his charming tongue is tip'd with grace;
His soul by hellish legions is possest,
And furious passions revel in his breast.
While bright devotion triumphs in his eyes,
His heart is fill'd with fraud, his lips with lies:
None seems more truly pious, none more just,
Yet has no God to worship but his lust.
He loves the gust of sin, but loaths the shame,
And is a devil in all things but the name;
Condemns the sins of others, huggs his own,
And loves religion as a mask alone.
His treach'rous soul veil'd with a fawning smile
Covers with heavenly air infernal guile.
Loudly he tones his penitential psalms,
And blows a trumpet to proclaim his alms;
God's altar does of costly offerings rob,
But tithes his mint, to gain th' applauses of the mob;
Equally courts vice and a virtuous fame,
Not to deserve but to obtain a name.
His closet's never conscious to his pray'r,
Unless he knows some witnesses are near:
But in the church he makes a fair parade;
There all his vows are offer'd, there are paid.
He hates the substance, loves the shew of grace,
And banters the Almighty to his face:
The worst of men and yet appears the best;
He sins in earnest, but he prays in jest.
Made up of fraud his ev'ry gesture lies;
Lies with his tongue, and with his hands and eyes.
Last on himself his treachery he completes;
And of his soul himself devoutly cheats.