To church I went, with good intent,
To hear Sangrado preach and pray;
But objects there, black, brown and fair,
Turned eyes and heart a different way.
Miss Patty's fan, Miss Molly's man,
With powdered hair and dimple cheek;
Miss Bridget's eyes, that once made prize
Of Fopling with his hair so sleek:
Embroidered gowns, and play-house tunes
Estranged all hearts from heaven too wide:
I felt most odd, this house of God
Should all be flutter, pomp, and pride.
Now, pray be wise, no prayers will rise
To heaven — where hearts are not sincere.
No church was made for Cupid's trade;
Then why these arts of ogling here?
Since time draws nigh, when you and I,
At church, must claim the sexton's care!—
Leave pride at home, when'er you come
To pay to heaven your offerings, there!