To Rome then must the royal wand'rer go,
And fall a suppliant at the papal toe?
His life in sloth inglorious must he wear,
One half in luxury, and one in pray'r?
His mind perhaps at length, debauch'd with ease,
The proffer'd purple and the hat may please.
Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race
To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace,
In solemn conclave sit, devoid of thought,
And poll for points of faith his trusty vote!
Be summon'd to his stall in time of need,
And with his casting suffrage fix a creed!
Shall he in robes on stated days appear,
And English hereticks curse once a year!
Garnet and Faux shall he with pray'rs invoke,
And beg that Smithfield piles once more may smoak!
Forbid it heav'n! my soul, to fury wrought,
Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought.