The Castle at _Edinburgh_ is reckon’d as impregnable as a _Scotchman_’s sear’d Conscience; and their Capital contains but one Broad Street, by which is an University containing one College of Scholars poor both in Purse and Head. Here are no Carts, but sliding Cars; and the highest Number I ever saw on their Hackney Coaches exceeded not 29. The _Scots_ reckon their Children spurious if they have not the Itch; and there’s as much Whoring every Day, as at _Bartholomew_ or _Southwark_ Fair. They Bury the Dead at Noon, to save the Charge of Torches; and as here are no Linkmen, only Boys and Girls light Passengers with Candles in Paper Lanthorns all about Town for a Baubee. Most of the People are generally of the Religion with them who marry without a Ring, Christen without the Cross, and Die without Baptism. Their Pastors, who are of the true Stamp of _Geneva_, endeavour by long extemporary Prayers and tedious Graces, to save the poor Souls of those Mountaineers; but yet their Hypocrisie Damns more than ever _Sampson_ Slew, and with the same Weapon too, _the Jaw Bone of an Ass_. The _Presbyterian_ Government is uppermost here; which Religion being a good quiet Subject, I could not forbear setting forth the Piety of a _Scotch Presbyterian_, in the following Lines.
_~CHRISTIANS~, behold a most pernicious sight, Which worse than Hell wou’d dying Martyrs fright! Such Monsters ~Africk~ never did produce; Nor ~Lucifer~, when all his Imps broke loose, To win, by force of Arms, celestial Sway, But, unsuccessful, lost the fatal Day: And if its Name by any shou’d be ask’d, It is a ~Presbyterian~ unmask’d. His Eyes at Vice look sad, and full of Woe, Yet Heart and Tongue together never go; His Words in Conventicles virtuous be, But nauseous, when at Home, to Modesty. To seem Dovout, he hates all common Whores, But those which Ply in Private much Adores. He trembles when a first Rate Oath he hears; But Perjury his Int’rest seldom fears. In solemn Leagues and Covenants he takes Delight; but greater in the Vows he breaks: And as informing is his darling Trade, He is a godly Man in Masquerade. In fine, he’s Born, he Lives, and Dies in Sin; A Saint without, and Devil all within: Nay, as his Sanctity’s a pious Fraud, Which none but Knaves and Villains can applaud, He is all Hypocrite, and what is worse! The Scorn of Men, and God’s eternal Curse._