These weighty reasons sway'd the vicar's mind —
To town he hied, but left his wife behind: —
Next levee day he waited on his Grace,
With hundreds more, who bow'd to get a place;
Shov'd in the croud, he stood amaz'd to see
Lords who to Baal bent the supple knee,
And doctors sage he could not but admire,
Who stoop'd profoundly low — to rise the higher.
So much of ermine, lace, beaus, bishops, young and old,
'Twas like a cloud of sable edg'd with gold:
By turns his Grace the servile train addrest,
Pleas'd with a smile, or in a whisper blest.
Sick of the scene, the vicar sought the door,
Determin'd never to see London more;
But, as his friend had pleas'd the hour to fix,
First went to dinner to my Lord's at six; —
He knock'd — was usher'd to the room of state,
(My Lord abroad) and dinner serv'd in plate;
Which, tho' it seem'd but common soup and hash,
Was really callipee and callipash,
(The relicks of the gaudy day before)
What Indians eat, and Englishmen adore;
With bright champaign the courtier crown'd the feast,
Sooth'd his own pride, and gratify'd his guest:
All this conspir'd our Stoic to controul,
And warpt the steady purpose of his soul —
When lo! the cry of fire creates amaze —
"The next house, Lady Riot's, in a blaze"—
Aghast the vicar stood, in wild affright,
Then briefly thus address'd the priest polite:
"Adieu, my friend — your state I envy not —
"Beef, liberty, and safety be my lot. "