Your little Sketch, and sage Advice
To the free States has bless’d my eyes,
On which permit me, Sir, to send
The Strictures of a faithful Friend,
Who wishes you his doubts to clear
Touching your own great Character.

You say, “Th’ Americans distrest
“Unite your Counsel to request:”
I doubt, if they indeed require it,
Or you desire them to desire it:
I fear, your pure benevolence
And care of souls, is meer pretence
Your own desires to gratify,
That dying, you may never die,
But vindicate your sacred Claim,
And purchase an immortal Name.

For King, (at last you let us know)
Convinc’d you many years ago,
“Bishops and Presbyters, in name
“Distinct, in Order are the same;
“And you th’ undoubted Right possess
“Now to ordain whome’er you please:
“Yet have, for peace and order sake,
“Refus’d your lawful Right to take,
“As loth to violate, or wrong
“The Church whom you had own’d so long.
“Your Preachers importun’d in vain,
They coud not get you to Ordain:
Hard-pressing you on every side
To gratify their secret pride,
(Eager the Envied Priests to ape,
And gain a feather in their cap)
Superior to the swelling floud,
A Rock impregnable you stood,
Nor coud Sir Peter self subdue,
Till you was turn’d of Eighty-two.
Woud King’s weak reasons have prevail’d,
Had not your solid judgment fail’d,
Had not your wavering heart misled,
And got the better of your head?
To prove a Point, you never was,
You never will be, at a loss,
(To prove, and to disprove it too,)
Just as you wish it false, or true.
In British realms you wave your Right,
Which justly exercise you might
Where in America appear
Nor Bishop, Priest, nor Presbyter.
Wherefore abroad your scruples end;
Elders to Them you boldly send;
Tho’ here you fear’d to do the same
“Where Bishops jurisdiction claim:
“You fear’d t’ invade their Character.[”]
Alas! how weak and insincere!
You was not by that fear restrain’d
From sending Preachers thro’ the land;
You chose the place of their abode,
You bad them leave it at your Nod,
And for a course of forty years
Appointed all your Ministers.
Now to your utmost height you rise,
And your whole Office exercise,
Nor Presbyters, nor Bishops need
To lay their hands upon your head,
But nobly, self-appointed, dare
To seize an Apostolic Chair,
And on the creatures of your will
Your glorious ministry fulfil.
And first your sacred hands are laid
On giddy Coke’s aspiring head,
Your throne Prelatical t’ inherit
Worthy thro’ dint of pure demerit:
Then, to secure a doubtful Friend,
The consecrated Pall you send,
A douceur, cross th’ Atlantic Sea,
To independent Astbury.
Two Elders, from the people’s lees,
Ordain’d for holy services,
Shall your high Dignity make known,
And prove, the Church is all your own!
Your Liturgy so well-prepar’d
To England’s Church proves your regard
Of churches national the best
By you, and all the world confest:
(Why shoud we then your bad counsel take
And for a worse the best forsake?)
You tell us, with her Book of prayer
No book is worthy to compare?

Why change it then for your Edition,
Deprav’d by many a bold omission?
We never will renounce our creed,
Because of Three but One you need,
No longer the Nicene approve,
The Athanasian Mound remove,
And out of your New book have thrown
God One in Three, and Three in One.
The Articles curtail’d must be,
To compliment Presbytery:
The Saints alas and Martyrs are
All purg’d out of your Calendar,
Since you for Saints acknowlege none
Except the Saints of Forty-One,
With their fanatical Descendants
The noble House of Independants!
Such is Your Church, above the rest
Extol’d and better than the best;
The Basis sure you laid alone,
You rais’d at once the crowning-stone:
And now if any man, you say,
Will point you out a wiser way
To govern these poor Sheep, and feed,
And safely thro’ the desart lead;
You gladly will his counsel take:—
But careful first all sure to make,
You steal the steed, and (not before)
You bid us—shut the stable-door.
How is it possible to hide
From your own heart its closest pride?
Pride only gave the dire occasion
Of your clandestine Ordination:
Pride furnish’d the usurping power,
The garret and the secret hour:
Studious to hide from human sight
A deed that coud not bear the light,
Did you your dearest Brother join
In council on your dark design?
Him you pass’d by for reasons good,
Who ready at your elbow stood
And wisely your Exploit conceal’d
To none but favrite Tools reveal’d
Not to your Partners in degree
Not to your own Presbytery.
Surely you meant to verify
By after-facts the Popish Lie,
And in your hugger-mugger fashion
To act the Nags head Ordination,
And power Pontifical assume
Greater than all the Popes of Rome.
Why woud you aim at things so high
Why on your Self alone rely?
How frivolous your strongest Plea
Of Self-impos’d Necessity!
“You ask a Bishop to ordain[“]
Whom you believe a proper man,[”]
A proper Man your friends esteem,
But his a man improper deem:
You trust your friends, to you best known,
Best known to Him He trusts his own!
And who can his refusal blame,
When all men woud have done the same?
This urges you to let him see
You are a Bishop good as He,
And need not ask his Lordship’s leave
For power you to yourself can give,
Or make, after one flat denial,
Upon the rest a farther trial:
For if they shoud ordain your sons,
They woud not do it all at once:
No instantaneous starts they know,
So cool, deliberate, and slow,
You cant for their proceedings stay
The thing admitting no delay:
(Yourself was doubtless in such haste
Lest help from hence shoud come too fast)
And if our Bishops shoud ordain,
They woud expect the Rule to gain
To govern the whole Church and guide,
Whereas you will yourself preside
And modestly yourself esteem
A fitter Governor than Them
Somebody owed you, friend, a shame
Or this you had forborn to name,
For by your self-preferring brag
You let the Cat out of the bag,
And vanity too strong for art
Bewrays the weakness of your heart.
But grant the Bishops shoud bow down,
And you their great Superior own,
Must they to abject Coke submit
Who licks the dust under your feet?
Does Coke deserve to reign supreme?
Or can you give your spirit to Him?
Your reign will be concluded soon,
And where is Coke, when you are gone?
Will Asbury to Coke give place,
Or fly in his Archbishop’s face,
Against his Consecrator swell
“And all his own importance feel?”
And while the little flock they tear,
Be sure to gain the largest share.
But grievous ills you apprehend
Unless yourself Superintend,
And rescue from despotic sway
The Brethren in America.
For as the State’s and Church’s yoke
Is from their neck so strangely broke
So disintangled from the chain
Why shoud we hamper them again?
Freed from the English Hierarchy
Your people you exult to see,
Left at discretion to pursue
The scriptures—as explain’d by You,
And the primeval Church to own,
Where Priests and Bishops are but One.
YOU JUDGE IT BEST (and much you love
To judge, and your own Acts approve)
You judge it best, that they shoud stand
Subject to none but your command
(As You and Providence design’d)
From England totally disjoin’d,
As who their Mother never knew,
As loose, and disengaged—as You.

But we bewail their wretched state,
(Whom you alas, congratulate)
Griev’d, that triumphant Wickedness
Rebellion curst with sad Success
Traitors, and Gaul, and furious Zeal,
Murther, and Anarchy, and Hell
Have giv’n the States their liberty
Yet GOD, you say, has made them free!