Classic Poem

In their religion they are so unev'n,
That each man goes his own by-way to Heav'n.
Tenacious of mistakes to that degree,
That ev'ry man pursues it sep'rately,
And fancies none can find the way but he,
So shy of one another they are grown
As if they strove to get to Heav'n alone.
Rigid and zealous, positive and grave,
And ev'ry grace, but charity, they have.
This makes them so ill-natured and uncivil
That all men think an Englishman the Devil.
Surly to strangers, forward to their friend;
Submit to love with a reluctant mind,
Resolved to be ungrateful and unkind.
If by necessity reduced to ask,
The giver has the difficultest task,
For what's bestowed they awkwardly receive,
And always take less freely than they give.
The obligation is their highest grief;
And never love, where they accept relief.
So sullen in their sorrows that 'tis known
They'll rather die than their afflictions own;
And if relieved, it is too often true
That they'll abuse their benefactors too:
For in distress their haughty stomach's such,
They hate to see themselves obliged too much.
Seldom contented, often in the wrong;
Hard to be pleased at all, and never long.