To ftudy Souls, their Cures, and their Diseases? The Province of the Soul is large enough
To fill up ev'ry Cranny of your Time,
And leave you much to anfwer, if one Wretch Be damn'd by your Neglect.
Why then thefe foreign Thoughts of State Employments, Abhorrent to your Function, and your Breeding? Poor droning Truants of unpractis'd Cells, Bred in the Fellowship of bearded Boys; What Wonder is it if you know not Men? Yet there you live demure with down-caft Eyes, And humble as your Difcipline requires: But when let loofe from thence to live at large, Your little Tin&ture of Devotion dies : Then Luxury fucceeds, and fet agog With a new Scene of yet untafted Joys, You fall with greedy Hunger to the Feaft; Of all your College Virtues, nothing now But your original Ignorance remains.
Triumphant Plenty, with a chearful Grace, Basks in their Eyes, and fparkles in their Face: How fleek their Looks, how goodly is their Mien, When big they ftrut behind a double Chin? Each Faculty in Blandifhments they lull, Afpiring to be venerably dull.
No learn'd Debates moleft their downy Trance, Or difcompofe their pompous Ignorance. But undisturb'd they loiter Life away, So wither Green, and bloffom in Decay. Deep funk in Down, they by Sloth's gentle Care, 'Avoid th'Inclemencies of Morning Air;
And leave to tatter'd Crape, the Drudgery of Pray'r. But bloated with Ambition, Pride and Avarice, You fwell to counfel Kings and govern Kingdoms: Content you with monopolizing Heav'n, And let this little hanging Ball alone; For give you but a Foot of Confcience there, And you, like Archimedes, tofs the Globe,
Your Saviour came not with a gawdy Show,
Nor was his Kingdom of the World below; Patience in Want, and Poverty of Mind,
Thefe Marks of Church and Churchmen he defign'd, And living taught, and dying left behind. The Crown he wore was of the pointed Thorn, In Purple he was crucify'd, not born:
They who contend for Place and high Degree, Are not his Sons, but those of Zebedee.
For Priests of all Religions are the fame: Of whatfoe'er Defcent' their Godhead be, Stone, Stock, or other homely Pedigree; In his Defence his Servants are as bold, As if he had been born of beaten Gold. For 'tis their Duty, all the Learned think, T'efpoufe his Caufe by whom they eat and drink. I tell thee, Mufti, if the World were wife, They would not wag one Finger in your Quarrels: Your Heav'n you Promife, but our Earth you covet; The Phaetons of Mankind, who fire that World,
Which you were fent by Preaching but to warm. Dryd.Don Seb. For whether King or People feek Extreams,
Still Confcience and Religion are the Themes.
And whatsoever Change the State invades, The Pulpit either forces, or perfwades.
Others may give the Fuel or the Fire,
But Priefts the Breath, that makes the Flame, infpire. Denh.Soph. We know their Thoughts of us; that Laymen are
Lag Souls, and Rubbish of remaining Clay,
Which Heav'n, grown weary of more perfect Work, Set upward with a little Puff of Breath,
And bid us pafs for Men.
We know their holy Jugglings,
Things that would ftartle Faith, and make us deem Not this, or that, but all Religions falfe.
My Reafon blindfold, like a hamper'd Lion,
Check'd of its noble Vigour: Then when baited
Down to obedient Tamenefs, make it couch
And fhew ftrange Tricks, which you call Signs of Faith:
So filly Souls are gull'd, and you get Money.
Rear in the Streets bright Altars to the Gods,. Let Virgins Hands adorn the Sacrifice; And not a grey-Beard forging Prieft come there, To pry into the Bowels of the Victim, And with their Dotage mad the gaping World. Why feek we Truth from Priefts?
The Smiles of Courtiers, and the Harlots Tears, The Tradefmans Oath, and Mourning of an Heir, Are Truths to what Priests tell:
Oh why has Priesthood Privilege to lie,
Is not the Care of Souls a Load fufficient?
And yet to be believ'd?
Are not your holy Stipends paid for this? Were you not bred apart from worldly Noife,
To study Souls, their Cures, and their Diseases? The Province of the Soul is large enough
To fill up ev'ry Cranny of your Time,
And leave you much to answer, if one Wretch Be damn'd by your Neglect.
Why then thefe foreign Thoughts of State Employments, Abhorrent to your Function, and your Breeding? Poor droning Truants of unpractis'd Cells, Bred in the Fellowship of bearded Boys; What Wonder is it if you know not Men? Yet there you live demure with down-caft Eyes, And humble as your Difcipline requires: But when let loofe from thence to live at large, Your little Tin&ture of Devotion dies: Then Luxury fucceeds, and fet agog With a new Scene of yet untafted Joys, You fall with greedy Hunger to the Feaft; Of all your College Virtues, nothing now But your original Ignorance remains.
Triumphant Plenty, with a chearful Grace, Basks in their Eyes, and fparkles in their Face: How fleek their Looks, how goodly is their Mien, When big they ftrut behind a double Chin? Each Faculty in Blandifhments they lull, Afpiring to be venerably dull.
No learn'd Debates moleft their downy Trance, Or difcompofe their pompous Ignorance. But undisturb'd they loiter Life away, So wither Green, and bloffom in Decay. Deep funk in Down, they by Sloth's gentle Care, 'Avoid th'Inclemencies of Morning Air; And leave to tatter'd Crape, the Drudgery of Pray'r. But bloated with Ambition, Pride and Avarice, You fwell to counfel Kings and govern Kingdoms : Content you with monopolizing Heav'n, And let this little hanging Ball alone; For give you but a Foot of Confcience there, And you, like Archimedes, tofs the Globe,
Your Saviour came not with a gawdy Show,
Nor was his Kingdom of the World below; Patience in Want, and Poverty of Mind,
Thefe Marks of Church and Churchmen he defign'd, And living taught, and dying left behind.
The Crown he wore was of the pointed Thorn,! In Purple he was crucify'd, not born:
They who contend for Place and high Degree, Are not his Sons, but those of Zebedee.
Yet Churchmen, tho' they itch to govern all, Are filly, woful, aukard Politicians:
They make lame Mifchief, tho' they mean it well. Their Int'rest is not finely drawn and hid,
But Seams are coarfly bungled up and feen.
Sure 'tis an Orthodox Opinion,
That Grace is founded in Dominion. Great Piety confifts in Pride:
To rule is to be fanctify'd.
To domineer and to controul Both o'er the Body and the Soul, Is the most perfe&t Difcipline
Of Church-Rule, and by Right Divine. Bel and the Dragon's Chaplains were More moderate than thefe by far.
For they, poor Knaves, were glad to cheat, To get their Wives and Children Meat, But these will not be fobb'd off so, They must have Wealth and Pow'r too; Or elfe with Blood and Defolation, They'll tear it out o'th'Heart o'th'Nation. Sure these themselves from Primitive And Heathen Priesthood do derive: When Butchers were the only Clerks, Elders and Presbyters of Kirks: Whofe Directory was to kill, And fome believe that 'tis fo ftill, The only Diff'rence is, that then They flaughter'd only Beafts, now Men. For then to facrifice a Bullock,
Or now and then a Child to Moloch. They count a vile Abomination, But not to flaughter a whole Nation,
CHAPLAIN.
My Time is spent pleasantly;
My Lord is neither haughty nor imperious,
Nor I gravely whimfical: He has good Nature,
And I have good Manners.
His Sons too are civil to me, because
I do not pretend to be wifer than they are
I meddle with no Man's Business, but my own.
I rife in a Morning early, ftudy moderately,
Eat and drink chearfully, live foberly,
Take my innocent Pleafures freely;
So meet with Refpect, and am not the Jeft of the Family.
Promifes once made are past Debate ;
And Truth's of more Neceffity than Fate.
It is no Scandal nor Afperfion, Upon a great and noble Perfon, To fay, he nat'rally abhorr'd
Th'old fafhion'd Trick to keep his Word: Tho' 'tis Profidioufnefs and Shame,
In meaner Men to do the fame: For to be able to forget,
Is found more useful to the Great, Than Gout, or Deafnefs, or bad Eyes, To make 'em pafs for wondrous wife. PROTEUS.
In the Carpathian Bottom makes abode,
The Shepherd of the Seas, a Prophet and a God: High o'er the Main in wat'ry Pomp he rides, His Azure Car, and finny Courfers guides.
Him, not alone the River Gods adore, But aged Nereus harkens to his Lore.
With fure Forefight, and with unerring Doom He fees what is, and was, and is to come. This Neptune gave him, when he gave to keep His fcaly Flocks, that graze the watry Deep. When weary with his Toil and fcorch'd with Heat, The wayward Sire frequents his cool Retreat : With Force invade his Limbs, and bind him fast For unconstrain'd he nothing tells for nought, Nor is with Pray'rs, or Bribes, or Flatt'ry bought. The flipp'ry God will try to loofe his Hold, And various Forms affume to cheat thy Sight, And with vain Images of Beafts affright. With foamy Tusks will feem a briftly Boar, Or imitate the Lion's angry Roar;
Break out in crackling Flames to fhun thy Snares, Or hifs a Dragon, or a Tiger ftares;
Or with a Wile thy Caution to betray, In fleeting Streams attempt to flide away. Will weary all his Miracles of Lies, Till having fhifted ev'ry Form to 'scape, Convinc'd of Conqueft he refumes his Shape. Proteus's Cave.
Within a Mountain's hollow Womb, there lies
A large Recefs, conceal'd from human Eyes:
Where Heaps of Billows, driv'n by Wind and Tide, In Form of War their watry Ranks divide,
And there, like Centries fet, without the Mouth abide. A Station fafe for Ships, when Tempefts roar, A filent Harbour and a cover'd Shore.
« السابقةمتابعة » |