For his Religion, it was fit
To match his learning and his wit; 190
’Twas Presbyterian true blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true Church Militant;
Such as do build their faith upon 195
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks; 200
Call fire and sword and desolation,
A godly thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done;
As if religion were intended 205
For nothing else but to be mended. 
A sect, whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss; 210
More peevish, cross, and splenetick,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick. 
That with more care keep holy-day
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclin’d to, 215
By damning those they have no mind to: 
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipp’d God for spite. 
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for. 220
Free-will they one way disavow,
Another, nothing else allow: 
All piety consists therein
In them, in other men all sin: 
Rather than fail, they will defy 225
That which they love most tenderly;
Quarrel with minc’d-pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge;
Fat pig and goose itself oppose,
And blaspheme custard through the nose. 230
Th’ apostles of this fierce religion,
Like Mahomet’s, were ass and pidgeon,
To whom our knight, by fast instinct
Of wit and temper, was so linkt,
As if hypocrisy and nonsense 235
Had got th’ advowson of his conscience.