THE Clock strikes Twelve — M—E starts and swears,
In  we know as well as
RELIGION lies, and a  Brother
May use at will or one or t'other;
PLAUSIBLE, from his Cassock drew,
A holy Manual, seeming new,
A Book it was of
But not a pin the worse for wear,
For, as we by the bye may say,
None but  Saints in private pray.
RELIGION, fairest Maid on earth,
As meek as good, who drew her birth
From that blest union, when in heaven
PLEASURE was Bride to VIRTUE given,
RELIGION, ever pleas'd to pray,
Possess'd the precious gift one day;
HYPOCRISY, of CUNNING born,
Crept in and stole it e'er the morn.
WH—TF—D, that greatest of all Saints,
Who always prays, and never faints,
Whom SHE to her  bore,
RAPINE and LUST, on SEVERN's shore,
Receiv'd it from the  Dame;
From  to PLAUSIBLE it came,
Who, with unusual care opprest,
Now trembling pull'd it from his breast.
Doubts in his boding heart arise,
And fancied Spectres blast his eyes.
DEVOTION springs from abject
And stamps his Pray'rs for  sincere.