P--TT. As much as for the public weal, My anxious bosom burns with zeal For pious Parson WYV--LL For him I'll fret, and fume, and spout, Go ev'ry length--except go out, For that's to me the Devil!

K----- What if, our sinking cause to save, We both our jealous strife should wave, And act our former farce on: If I to JENKY were more stern, Would you, then, generously turn Your back upon the Parson?

P--TT. Tho' to support his patriot plan I'm pledg'd as _Minister_ and _Man_, This storm I hope to weather; And since your Royal will is so, _Reforms_ and the _Reformers_ too, May all be d.a.m.n'd together!

Prettymaniana.

EPIGRAMS ON THE REV. DR. PR--TT--MAN'S DUPLICITY.

I.

That PRETTYMAN's so pale, so spare, No cause for wonder now affords; He lives, alas! on empty fare, Who lives by _eating his own 'words!_

II.

In BAYES's burlesque, though so strange it appear'd, That PRINCE PRETTYMAN's self should PRINCE PRETTYMAN _kill_; _Our_ Prettyman FURTHER to go has not fear'd, But in d.a.m.nING himself, he extended his skill!

III.

Undaunted PITT, against the State to plot, Should int'rest spur, or pa.s.sion urge ye; Dread not the hapless exit of LA MOTTE, Secure in _Benefit of Clergy!_

IV.

That against my fair fame You devise so much blame, Cries the Priest, with a d.a.m.n me, what care I?

Since the gravest Divine, Tells a lie worse than mine, When he cries, "_Nolo Episcopari!_"

V.

How wisely PITT, for different ends, Can marshal his obedient friends!

When only _time_ he wants, not sense, MULGRAVE vents _copious impotence_.

If demi-falsehood must be tried, By ROSE the quibbling task's supply'd-- But for the more accomplish'd lie, Who with meek PR--TT--MAN shall vie?

VI.

(PR--TT--MAN _loquitur_.)

Although, indeed, 'tis truly said, The various principles of _Trade_ We are not very glib in; Yet surely none will this deny, Few know so well as PITT, or I, To manufacture _fibbing_.

VII.

A horrible fib that a Priest should have told, Seems to some people's thinking excessively odd, Yet sure there's no maxim more certain or old, Than "_The nearer the Church still the farther from G.o.d._"

VIII.

Why should such malice at the Parson fly?

For though he _spoke_, he scorn'd to write, a lye.

IX.

While the Wits and the Fools Parson PRETTY belabour, With--"Thou shalt not false witness; set up 'gainst thy neighbour,"

The text and the fact (cries the Priest) disagree.

For in Downing-street _I_, in Great George-street lives _He_.

X.

What shall reward bold PRETTY's well-tim'd sense, } For turning new an IRISH _Evidence_? } An IRISH _Bishop.r.i.c.k_'s the recompence! }

XI.

What varied fates the same offence a.s.sail!

PRETTY, install'd--and ATKINSON, in jail.

Both scorn alike the laws that truth maintains; Yet one, a Prebend, one, a Prison gains.

This mounts a _stall_, the _pillory_ that ascends; For public, one, and one for private ends.

The first gets ample scope _our_ ears to pain; The other scarcely can _his own_ retain: Just Heav'n, reverse the doom!--To punish each, To ATKINSON alone, let PRETTY preach!

XII.

How happy, alas! had it been for poor PITT, If WYVILL, like PRETTYMAN, never had writ!

XIII.

------_Scelera ipsa nefasque Hac mercede placent_--------

Cries PRETTYMAN, "Consider, Sir, My sacred cloth, and character."

The indignant Minister replied, "This ne'er had been, had ORDE ne'er lyed."

The patient Priest at last relented; And _all his Master wish'd_, invented; Then added, with a saint-like whine, "But the next Mitre _must_ be mine!"

XIV.

For _tongue_ or for _eye_, Who with PRETTY can vie?

Sure such organs must save him much trouble; For of labour not loth, Tis the way with them both, Their functions to execute----_double!_

XV.

The days of miracle, 'twas thought, were past; (Strange from what cause so wild an error sprung) But now convinc'd, the world allows at last, PRETTY's still favour'd with a--_cloven tongue!_

XVI.

_Faith in the Church_, all grave Divines contend, Is the chief hold whence future hopes depend.

How hard then BRITAIN's lot!--for who hath _faith_ To credit _half_ what Doctor PRETTY saith?

XVII.

(By SIR CECIL WRAY.)