Said a letch'rous old fry'r skulking near Lincoln's-Inn,
(Whose trade's to absolve, but whose pastimes's to sin;
Who, spider-like, seizes weak protestant flies,
Which hung in his sophistry cobweb he spies;)
Ah pity your soul, for without our church pale,
If you happen to die, to be damn'd you can't fail;
The bible, you boast, is a wild revelation:
Hear a church that can't err if you hope for salvation.