A Lutheran stout, I hold for Goose-and-Gaundry
Both the Pope's Limbo and his fiery Laundry:
No wit e'er saw I in Original Sin,
And no Sin find I in Original Wit;
But if I'm all in the wrong, and, Grin for Grin,
Scorch'd Souls must pay for each too lucky hit,—
Oh, Fuller! much I fear, so vast thy debt,
Thou art not out of Purgatory yet;
Tho' one, eight, three and three this year is reckon'd,
And thou, I think, didst die sub Charles the Second.