While envious Foes against thy Fame conspire,
And by depressing raise thy Spirit higher,
By stubborn Facts attempt their Charge to fix,
By conjuring up the Ghosts of Hereticks
Thy Virtue wrong, thy Dignity disgrace,
And daub with thickest Dirt thy comely Face:
Permit an humble Bard, inspir’d by Thee,
To give thee back thine own Apology,
In thine own Words thy praises to rehearse
And paint thy Hero in heroic Verse,
Till all confess thy Fascinating Power,
And those who censure most, admire thee more.
There is a Time, when Merit is allow’d
To praise itself, magnanimously proud,
When conscious Virtue its Reward may claim;
Philosophers and Kings have done the same.
Tho’ Criticks cold condemn the generous Boast,
And say, that “Honour, when assum’d, is lost”;
Tis great, tis noble, and becomes thee well
To fetch from high thy glorious Parellel!
To whom shoudst Thou compare a Soul like thine,
But to a Socrates or Antonine?
Who but a Cesar his own Acts shou’d paint?
Who but a Z[inzendorf] record Himself a Saint?
Constrain’d at last, Thou dost Thyself display
And rise majestic into open Day,
Thou dost (with Pain no doubt, and huge Distress)
Give thy own Face a farther Comliness,
Shew us thy lovely Self, for All to ape,
Pure abstract Virtue in an human Shape.

And first thy Person (with Thyself) we own,
Perhaps, not every where alike unknown,
Not one extravagant, or ill design’d
To shadow forth the Vastness of thy mind:
Thy portly mein august, thy solemn Pace,
And Self-importance stampt upon thy Face,
Must every Eye and every Heart engage,
And loudly speak the high-born Personage.
Or if they fail, the World shall learn from Thee,
In every Page thine antient Pedigree:
Thy Muster-roll Lords, Dukes, and Burgraves fill,
(From Sovereigns too descended by the Spill.)
In every Act Thou dost Thyself declare,
Like People of a public Character,
Thine Ancestors and Territories tell,
And Titles high, that to a Mountain swell.
Yet the grand Monde Thou dost long since forego,
Not without Means its Grandeurs all to know,
Yet hast thou cast thy Riches all aside,
Houses and Honours, Stateliness and Pride;
Howe’er thou mayst to reasning Minds appear
Thy own most despicable Trumpeter,
Vainest of all the Potsherds of the Earth,
Eternal Boaster of thy Rank and Birth,
Proud as a supercilious Worm can be,
Amazing Preacher of Humility!

Like others of thy Rank (like Kings that go
To foreign Courts) Thou dwelst incognito:
Like Persian Kings, conceal’d from vulgar Sight,
Thou livst in England a meer Anchorite
Lodg’d in thy garret, as an humble Cell,
And rarely by thy Subjects visible.
Thrice happy They, if suffer’d to draw near,
With meek Devotion, and religious Fear,
They see thee in thy Palace once a year.

So in his Shrine the Indian Pagod sits,
And seldom his blind Worshippers admits,
Some crafty Bramin, rais’d above the rest,
Who knows the Crowd, and acts a God the best:
By Satan taught Divinity t’ assume,
He darts his Glory thro’ the sacred Gloom,
A living Image, sent them from the skies,
Solemn he waves his Hands, and rolls his eyes,
Affects to shake the Temple with his Nod,
And the whole Nation cries—Behold our God!

Yet is thy Converse (if Thyself we hear)
Open, and cordial, lively, and sincere:
Thy Cabinet too is open day and night,
And every simple Soul may get a sight:
Accessible thou art to great and small,
Fond to be broken in upon by all.
Find in his heart to censure Thee who can,
An happy, harmless, inoffensive Man!

So blith, and debonair, so frank, and free,
Thy very Servants are as great as Thee.
But well thou knowst thy Grandeur to maintain,
And take the Reins of Government again,
To make the servile Tools their distance keep,
Instructed when to run, and when to creep,
To watch the Motions of thy sovereign Will,
Fly at thy Nod, or tremble and be still,
With prostrate Awe thy praises to repeat,
And lick the Dust beneath thy sacred Feet.

So the grand Monarch lays his State aside,
And all the Trammels of Majestic Pride,
Bright Sun of Empire he shrinks in his rays,
And frolicksom amidst his Courtiers plays:
But at his Pleasure, when the Revel burns,
Tis quench’d at once: for lo! the King returns!
Messeurs orewhelm’d again with awe profound
Fall at the dazling Sight, and kiss the ground,
The abject Souls cringe to their haughty Lord,
And L·O·U·is shines, by all his Slaves ador’d.
Nor art thou less benevolent than great,
Less good, than conscious of thy high Estate.
Thy Love, thou sayst, is vast and unconfin’d,
The Patron Thou, the Titus of Mankind.

Tho’ rebel Methodists excite thy Passion,
And force thy Meekness to a Deviation,
To all beside thy Charity extends,
Papists and Protestants it comprehends:
Jews, Turks, and Infidels may lodge apart,
Nor ever clash in thy capacious Heart.

Thou knowst the blind Mahometan to please,
And hint his Wants with delicate Address:
The Jews thou dost with kindest Smiles approve
And Thee, tis wonderful how much they love.
“They love (but what of wonderful in this?)
“One who betrays his Master with a Kiss,
“Who spurns, and crucifies him every day[”]
So some malignant Methodist wou’d say.

Yet spite of Envy, thy bewitching Smile
The widest Contraries can reconcile:
All sorts thou dost into thy Service take,
Of all a wondrous Coalition make,
Where Luther’s Partizans with Calvin’s join,
And Orthodox and Heterodox combine,
Together jumbled in a common Mass
(Their Head at least of pure Corinthian Brass)
Thy dear religious Tropus’s unite
No matter which is wrong, and which is right,
Suffice that in one Point they all agree
To shut their eyes, and blindly worship Thee.

So when Old Noll our Church and State or’ethrew,
The Saints into an holy League he drew,
The various Sects alike cajol’d carest,
And warm’d them in his large impartial Breast,
Cherish’d with equal Favour and Esteem,
(For all Religions were the same to Him)
A Preacher now, and now a crophair’d Brother,
Pray’d with one Party, and sung psalms with tother,
He let their Tenets and their Heads alone,
So all conspir’d to prop th’ Usurper’s Throne.
Thy Meekness next demands th’ applauding Song,
So long attack’d, invincible so long,
While from all Quarters shot, the Libels fly,
But never tempt thee to a rash Reply:
Nor greater Haste thy Gravity will make,
Than Spaniard whipt, or Bruin at a stake.

No lame Defence shall from thy mouth proceed,
Thou wilt not answer, for Thou wilt not read;
So tender to condemn, so loath to blame,
Or spoil thy Notion of a favourite Name!
A thousand Stabs can scarsely make thee groan,
Till Whitefield fetches out—And Thou my Son!
Till Rimius gives us in an English Dress
Thy modest Hymns, and upright Practices,
Impertinently questions Is it so?
And racks thy Conscience for a Yes, or No.

So be it then! the harmless Man of peace
No longer mild, and meek to an Excess,
By Foes (or clam’rous Followers?) compell’d,
His sevenfold Target grasps, and takes the field.
Great as La Mancha’s Knight, with stately Pace
He issues forth, and shews his rueful Face.
He issues forth, his desperate Foes to find,
And trusty Sancho follows close behind.
Ah! lovely Pair, which shall we most admire
The Knight magnanimous, or gentle Squire?

Ah, lovely Pair! in whom combin’d we see
The lordly Boast, and low Scurrility!
Strange Contrast! in the self-same Page appear,
Th’ illustrious Count, and quondam Bookseller!
We read transported: but we ask perplext,
Whose is the Comment, Friend, and whose the Text?
Our shrewd Suspicion, if the Truth were known
Text, Comment, Notes, and Stile—are all thy own.

And first, while pleas’d thy Principles to beg,
Thou bidst us only answer with our Leg,
And humbly hopst, thy Friends will be so just
As take thy every Saying upon trust.

Who call thee Rabbi, and Papa, and Lord,
Say black is white, they still will take thy word,
To reasoning Men thy Word is not enough,
Nor all thy Dogmata without their Proof;
Thy Word they doubt, thy Doctrines they deny,
And scorn with ipse dixit to comply,
And madly careless of thy gathering Frown,
Invite the Storm, and bring the Thunder down.

Woe to the Men, by whom thy Wrath is stirr’d,
Who take an angry Lion by the Beard!
Thy own Resentment skilful to conceal,
Thou rarely liftest up thy desperate Heel,
But dost thro’ Hutton’s Pen their faces claw,
And tear their eyes out with Grimalkin’s Paw,
Who to impeach thy Character shall dare,
When dreadful Hutton threatens not to spare?

Spit out of thy own Mouth—! whose borrow’d Sword,
Whose deadly Pen draws blood at every Word.
Thy furious Foil, he shews how meek thou art,
And compliments Thee with the calmer Part,
The slower Thou to wrath, he runs the faster,
And cunning James plays booty with his Master.
How oft to save thy Modesty the Pain,
And covertly commend Thyself again,
Dost Thou thy Servant’s various Talents try,
And teach him when to bully,—and to lie;
With nicest Flattery when to daub thy Face,
Loudly extol, and violently praise,
Publish both far and near thine high Desert,
How good, how great, how—everything thou art,
Repeat the Words deliver’d him from Thee,
And cry throughout the Nation—This is He!

This is the Man (the Man himself avers)
Who public Weal to private Gain prefers!
A Patriot, to his own entirely blind,
Who freely serves the Interest of Mankind;
Servant of Servants! to no Country bound,
Who deals his Blessings to the Nations round,
(His Recipes for Souls, till now unknown,
Nostrum’s and grand Arcanum’s of his own)
Assures the World their only Good he seeks:
And Hutton swears—Tis Gospel all he speaks!
Thus when the wonderful High-German Sage
In pure Benevolence ascends the Stage,
The generous Friend of Misery appears,
And takes the Vulgar by five hundred Ears
(His Med’cines rather bent to give than sell,
So cheap, so rare, and all infallible;)
Facetious Andrew holds the second Place,
And loudly ecchoes what his Master says,
Extols his Skill, extols his Remedies,
Extols his public Spirit to the skies:
The ductile Herd his powerful Rhetoric feels,
And gapes—and swallows all the Doctor’s Pills.
In Love to Man Thou dost thy Merits shew,
In Justice to thine injur’d Virtue too,
And still the more thy Libellers debase,
The more Thou dost thine own Perfections praise.
But shall I praise thy tardy bashful Friends
For forcing thee to make Thyself amends?
Thyself to clear th’ Aspersions of thy Fame,
And blaze the Glories of thy own great Name?

What Pity tis, that such an humble Man
Shou’d seem so haughty, arrogant, and vain,
His own Exploits in swelling words declare,
And father them upon The Editor!
Wou’d no Ally thine Excellence proclaim,
The Pencil snatch, and save thee from thy shame?
Not one observe the old Defensive League,
Nor steady C[ennick], nor judicious G?
What all forsake thee at thy greatest Need!
Has Gambold too forgot to write and read?
Or dost thou keep him ready at thy Beck
As thy Sheet-Anchor, and thy latest Stake,
And let that Zani in thy Cause appear
To wipe thee with his sn____ Handkercher!
A Champion worthy Thee! Equipp’d for fight,
With neither Nails to scratch, nor Teeth to bite,
Fit for his warm important Master’s Use
As hot and heavy as a Taylor’s Goose,
The dullest Scholar, and the poorest Tool,
That ever issued from a Dutchman’s School.
Then let me drop him; and with Wonder new
My fav’rite Theme, my noble Count pursue,
Who conscious of his Quality and Birth
Treats, like a Sovereign, with the Lords of earth,
Offers the Sceptre first, for Them to sway,
Maker of Kings, and gives his Realms away.
When all refuse the Triple Diadem,
By Right divine it justly falls to Him,
Head of the Church he then vouchsafes to be,
Ascends the Throne, and founds his new Theocracy.

Servant of Servants hail!—but O! the words
Give back, and let me greet thee Lord of Lords!
For Lords, thou sayst, from every side resort,
To swell the Grandeur of thy Papal Court:
The Arbiters of Life and Death resign
Their Power despotic, to be ruled by thine,
And Princes absolute submit to Thee,
Princes are proud to wear thy Livery,
Like Sheba’s Queen on all thy Greatness gaze,
And learn thy sweet inimitable Lays.

But more than all thy Greatness I admire
The heavenly Music of thine Infant Quire,
Melodious Babes, who in exactest time
Chaunt thy well-suited Hymns, and squall in Rhyme
The cross-air-pigs, how prettily they squeak,
And sing—or ever they have learn’d to speak,
Charming to hear, and wondrous to behold
Thy lovely Songsters—of a twelve month old!
A Truth how like a legendary Tale,
Where Fishes speak in Popish Miracle,
Worthy to be receiv’d by such alone
As bow to the sagacious Middleton,
Who tells us, Men may breathe without their Lungs,
Run without Legs—and talk without their Tongues.

Who now, when Z[inzendorf] a Fact has told,
What Infidel can his Assent withhold?
Maxims howe’er thou modestly mayst call
Thy words, thy Words are Demonstrations all.
Too great to scatter dust in prying eyes,
Thou scornst Evasion, Cunning, and Disguise
And Guile, tis evident, can ne’er agree
With all thy natural Simplicity.
Thou sayst it, and we need no longer fear
The sly ecclesiastic Kidnapper,
Who never didst a Sister-Church betray
Weaken, or steal her choicest Sons away.
If Numbers left her, could it be thy Fault?
’Twas Spangenberg depriv’d her of her Salt:
Moulter or Böhler play’d the cunning Thief,
And L·O·U·is came too late to her Relief:
Constant t’ oppose thy Agents, but in vain;
Thou coudst not give her back her Salt again;
Thou coudst not help it—or unlearn thy Skill
Of making Proselytes against thy Will:
But not a single Man, of high degree,
Or low, was taken from the Church by Thee.
And canst thou look us in the Face, and say
Thou never madst one Methodist thy Prey?
Thou never didst our easy Trust deceive,
Thou never didst or lie for GOD, or thieve!
As truly might thy own Cartouch deny
He ever did one Act of Robbery,
And modestly his roguish Comrades blame,
For plundering all the Country—in his Name.
But say, what means this Bleating in my Ear?
Whence came the Lambs which in thy Fold I hear?
Who hath begotten These that own thy sway?
Let every sad deserted Pastor say:
Or if thou hast not quite put out his eyes,
Let G[ambold] answer that his Master lies.
Why should I hope thy Confidence to shame,
Or ask—Hast ever heard of W[esley]’s Name?
Of Wh[itefield] or the rest, who many a year
Brought forth their Children for the murtherer?
Didst thou not track them by thy trusty Spies,
Claim the young Converts as thy lawful Prize,
Pursue the trav’ling Soul thro’ Desarts wild,
Like the Red Dragon watching for the Child?

But here thy Modesty insists again
“Thy Proselytes in their own Church remain.[”]
Is Stonehouse then both out of mind and sight?
And was not G[ambold] once thy Proselyte?
“Yes; but except the Brethren qualified,
“Who separated by Law, the rest abide.”
Like Ferrets in the Boroughs (taught no doubt
By Thee) they stay to drive their Neighbours out:
And when conform’d entirely to thy mind,
They quit the Church—they leave their Names behind
We have their Names, and Thou eleven Parts,
Their Hands, their Heads, their Purses, and their Hearts.
Yet dost thou wipe thy Mouth and take thy Ease,
Confronted by a thousand Witnesses,
With steady Face the plainest Fact deny,
(I never took them from the Church, not I!)
Insult our Reason with thy proud Defence,
And bear us down by Dint of Impudence!—
Of Eloquence I mean—the hasty word
Escap’d, unworthy of so great a Lord,
Who on his own Integrity relies,
Superior to a World of Enemies,
Affects with cool Disdain his Foes to see
And glories in his unfelt Infamy.
With equal Modesty, and equal Grace,
Immortal Henley lifts his flinty Face,
Wraps himself up in his own Virtuous Mind,
And conscious of his Worth, defies Mankind,
He laughs at Shame, so far beyond its Power,
And piques himself, that he can blush no more.

But why shoud my degrading Fancy dare
A Sovereign with a low Buffoon compare?
A King without the Name, whose Statutes bind
The Conscience of his Slaves, and chain ye mind;
While absolute himself, he stoops to none,
Mixt with ye Lords of earth, and reigns alone.

Ye Lords of earth, for your own Interest wise,
Where’er he comes, your more than Subject prize,
Your mighty Guest with due Distinction greet,
And Z[inzendorf] as on a level meet.
For if you like him not, alas for You!
Alas for yours! He makes his threatning true
With cruel haste, and bids your Realms adieu.
Deaf to the Self-accuser’s late Complaint,
Leaves you to feel your Loss, and mourn your Want,
And envy happier Climes th’ illustrious Emigrant.

But kindly first he bids you all beware
Mistakes, for Servitude he cannot bear
(Servant of Servants tho’ Himself he call,
His meek Humility is verbal all)
Cannot against his mind your Laws receive,
Or tame Obedience on Compulsion give;
So truly great, a Slave he will not be,
Who to his Life prefers his Liberty.

How like those Worthies, in the Lists of Fame,
Who rais’d to highest Heaven the Roman Name!
Whose haughty Spirit untam’d, could never brook
The Power of Kings, or bear a Tyrant’s Yoke.
Yet what they valued most, their Virtuous Pride
Their Justice tore from all the World beside.
With glorious Liberty supremely blest,
Foremost of men, they doom’d to chains the rest,
Gaul’d with their Fetters every freeborn Mind
The Scourge, the Pest, the Lords of all Mankind.
But what Thou art, thou thinkst, cannot be guest,
A Lord, or Cheat, a Blessing or a Pest:
Thy Character must still a Secret be,
Unriddled in the present Century.
Yet that succeeding Times may justly prize,
The Count beneficent, the Patriot wise,
The Prelate good, Thou leav’st a Copy fair,
A Sketch of thine immortal Character:
The Master-strokes Thou dost thyself supply,
Materials grand for thy own History;
The glorious Fact, that vindicates thy Fame,
And sticks among the Stars thy deathless Name;
So meekly good, so graciously inclin’d
To sooth the Curious Passion of Mankind,
Thou givst them all in every Age, to know
The noblest Deed thou e’er performdst below.
To latest Times recorded let it be
The Proof supreme of human Dignity!
Stand it in England’s Chronicles confest,
That Bishop Z[inzendorf], above the rest
Inthron’d, and foremost of the Sacred Line,
A Bishop with Authority Divine,
Greatest and best of Men—What did he do?
(Posterity will scarse believe it true)
Worthy of all Posterity to note—
He walk’d on foot, and preach’d in a black Coat!