Some hoary Hypocrite, grown old in sin,
Whose thoughts of heav'n with his last hours begin,
Counting a chaplet with a bigot care,
And mumbling somewhat 'twixt a charm and pray'r,
Hugs a dawb'd image of his injur'd Lord,
And squeezes out on the dull idol-board
A sore-ey'd gum of tears; the flannel Crew
With cunning joy the fond repentance view,
Pronounce Him bless'd, his miracles proclaim,
Teach the slight crow'd t' adore his hallow'd name,
Exalt his praise above the Saints of old,
And coin his sinking conscience into Gold.