On Dr. Rundle, Bishop Of Derry

1734-5     Make Rundle bishop! fie for shame!     An Arian to usurp the name!     A bishop in the isle of saints!     How will his brethren make complaints!     Dare any of the mitred host     Confer on him the Holy Ghost:     In mother church to breed a variance,     By coupling orthodox with Arians?         Yet, were he Heathen, Turk, or Jew:     What is there in it strange or new?     For, let us hear the weak pretence,     His brethren find to take offence;     Of whom there are but four at most,     Who know there is a Holy Ghost;     The rest, who boast they have conferr'd it,     Like Paul's Ephesians, never-heard it;     And, when they gave it, well 'tis known     They gave what never was their own.         Rundle a bishop! well he may;     He's still a Christian more than they.         We know the subject of their quarrels;     The man has learning, sense, and morals.         There is a reason still more weighty;     'Tis granted he believes a Deity.     Has every circumstance to please us,     Though fools may doubt his faith in Jesus.     But why should he with that be loaded,     Now twenty years from court exploded?     And is not this objection odd     From rogues who ne'er believed a God?     For liberty a champion stout,     Though not so Gospel-ward devout.     While others, hither sent to save us     Come but to plunder and enslave us;     Nor ever own'd a power divine,     But Mammon, and the German line.         Say, how did Rundle undermine 'em?     Who shew'd a better jus divinum?     From ancient canons would not vary,     But thrice refused episcopari.         Our bishop's predecessor, Magus,     Would offer all the sands of Tagus;     Or sell his children, house, and lands,     For that one gift, to lay on hands:     But all his gold could not avail     To have the spirit set to sale.     Said surly Peter, "Magus, prithee,     Be gone: thy money perish with thee."     Were Peter now alive, perhaps,     He might have found a score of chaps,     Could he but make his gift appear     In rents three thousand pounds a-year.         Some fancy this promotion odd,     As not the handiwork of God;     Though e'en the bishops disappointed     Must own it made by God's anointed,     And well we know, the cong regal     Is more secure as well as legal;     Because our lawyers all agree,     That bishoprics are held in fee.         Dear Baldwin[1] chaste, and witty Crosse,[2]     How sorely I lament your loss!     That such a pair of wealthy ninnies     Should slip your time of dropping guineas;     For, had you made the king your debtor,     Your title had been so much better.