Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, YOU THAT WOULD READ THE BIBLE, by THOMAS SHERIDAN (1687-1738)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

YOU THAT WOULD READ THE BIBLE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: You that would read the bible, turn all
Last Line: Shan't write a sentence of my own.
Subject(s): Bible


You that would read the Bible, turn all
To April 6, The London Journal,
And by a letter there you'll see
How much the text will owe to me.
Five thousand years and more -- 'tis odd
None could explain the word of God!
Of all the learned in all ages,
Through all their long, laborious pages,
Till I, the top of Irish Deans,
Have made it out with wondrous pains.
I've read the dev'l and all of books;
The world may read 'em in my looks:
Above ten wagonload at least,
Within my skull in order placed,
From thence to sally forth anew,
One Universal Single View.
I've likewise ransacked books profane
Which I shall muster to explain
Whate'er is hid, obscure, perplexed:
As plain as pikestaff, every text.
Most articles, whereof I treat,
Have been the subject of debate
Full often o'er a pot of ale,
When I was rabbi at Kinsale.
But then, for want of ancient learning,
The Scripture sense not well discerning,
Our nights were passed in great confusion,
No mortal making one conclusion.
To find a remedy for this,
I hope it will not be amiss
To furnish my associate quondam
(That they no more dispute at random)
With choice Collected Dissertations,
Answers, Rejoinders, Replications,
That each may have enough to say,
And hold the Scripture his own way.
Profecto legi plus quam satis,
More languages than Mithridates,
All which I learned (as will appear
Since I left Ireland) in one year;
Where such, as knew my stock, can tell
I scarcely could read English well.
In this one book I've done much more
Than all the world has done before;
No bibliotheque that is now extant
Has half so well explained a text on't;
With so much ease I can command it,
The greatest dunce may understand it.
If any thinks the work too long
For one man's head, I'll show he's wrong,
Because the way which I intend
Will bring it quickly to an end.
In chapters here and there I'll dip,
Whole books not worth the reading skip;
Whate'er's poetical or moral,
To them I have a mortal quarrel;
What merely is historical,
I shall not touch upon at all;
You'll see me such a Bible-trimmer,
That I'll reduce it to a primer.
As for the Fathers, they are all met
In Pool, Petavius and Calmet;
I've read 'em page by page, and find
No gleaning work for me behind.
And when I cut one folio short,
Will not the reader thank me for't?
For I have so much ancient lore
I could have swelled 'em into four.
We wait subscriptions coming in;
We're just beginning to begin;
'Tis this the printer's sole pretence is:
We've paper, types, amanuensis,
And all but what few pence are owing
To set the press and me a-going.
One thing I beg leave to remark --
For young divines who're in the dark,
And English readers who are straining
In every chapter for a meaning,
For men of letters and good sense,
Here's learning at a small expense;
They'll find my books, when well examined,
Will do by help of Pool and Hammond;
And if the parsons can afford once
A Bible with a large Concordance,
I know not anything they lack
Except it be an Almanac.
In my Compilement they shall see
Opinions, great variety,
That every schismatic with ease
May find a gloss himself to please.
Now Monsieur Calmet (like an olio)
Dished up nine tracts of his in folio;
To all his countrymen revealed
What Latin, Hebrew, Greek concealed,
So plain in French that every peasant
Breaks out with rapture in the praise on't.
O what a glorious learned heap is't!
A wondrous author for a papist!
I wish in English 'twere translated,
And mine to wipe his Rev'rence fated.
To what perfection had he brought
His books, with liberty of thought!
But all along he's cramped I find,
And therefore durst not speak his mind;
For had he said a word 'gainst Popery,
The laws would turn his neck with rope awry.
Thus foreign Pop'ry is a curse,
But English Popery is worse.

Remember all, before you're told,
That what I write for new is old;
If any man of reading looks,
He'll find it all in other books;
As I'm an orthodox divine,
I've stol'n my comments, every line.
There's all the wrangling tracts I know
Collected here, both con and pro,
So well disposed of, every man
May find the truth out, if he can.
From the Creation to the Flood
(To show you that my work is good),
I've drawn a sketch, as I thought best,
To form a judgment of the rest.
A word or two before I close all:
One Doctor Innis makes proposal --
A poor insipid moral tool,
He'd have the world to walk by rule.
He thinks I've naught to do but nose him;
I'd see him hanged ere I oppose him.
He strives to make men good, but I, Sir,
Resolve to make them worse, and wiser.
It ever was my way to love
The serpent, rather than the dove.
The doctor, by a vain pretension,
Depends upon his own invention;
But I, who always lived on loan,
Shan't write a sentence of my own.





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