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And if my prayers for all the brave were heard,
Cæfar fhould ftill have fuch, and fuch should ftill reward.
The labour'd earth your pains have fow'd and till'd;
'Tis juft you reap the product of the field:
Yours be the harveft, 'tis the beggar's gain
To glean the fallings of the loaded wain.
Such fcatter'd ears as are not worth your care,
Your charity for alms may fafely spare,
For alms are but the vehicles of
My daily bread is literally implor'd;
I have no barns nor granaries to hoard.
If Cæfar to his own his hand extends,
Say which of yours his charity offends:
You know he largely gives to more than are his friends.
you defrauded when he feeds the poor?
Our mite decreases nothing of your ftore.
I am but few, and by your fare you fee
My crying fins are not of luxury.
Some jufter motive fure your mind withdraws
And makes you break our friendship's holy laws;
For barefac'd envy is too base a cause.
Shew more occafion for
Your love, the Wolf, would help you to invent:
Some German quarrel, or, as times go now,
Some French, where force is uppermoft, will do.
When at the fountain's head, as merit ought
To claim the place, you take a fwilling draught,
How eafy 'tis an envious eye to throw,
And tax the sheep for troubling ftreams below;
Or call her (when no farther cause you find)
An enemy profefs'd of all your kind.
But then, perhaps, the wicked world would think,
The Wolf defign'd to eat as well as drink.
This laft allufion gall'd the Panther more,
Because indeed it rubb'd upon the fore.
Yet feem'd she not to winch, tho' fhrewdly pain’d:
But thus her paffive character maintain'd.
I never grudg'd, whate'er my foes report,
Your flaunting fortune in the Lion's court.
You have your day, or you are much bely'd,
But I am always on the fuffering fide:
You know my doctrine, and I need not fay,
I will not, but I cannot disobey.
On this firm principle I ever ftood;
He of fons who fails to make it good,
By one rebellious act renounces to my
Ah, faid the Hind, how many fons have you,
Who call you mother, whom you never knew!
But most of them who that relation plead,
Are fuch ungracious youths as wish you dead.
They gape at rich revenues which hold,
And fain would nibble at your grandame Gold;
Enquire into your years, and laugh to find
Your crazy temper fhews you much declin'd.
Were you not dim and doted, you might fee
A pack of cheats that claim a pedigreee,
No more of kin to you than you to me.
Do you not know, that for a little coin,
Heralds can foift a name into the line:
They afk you bleffing but for what you have.
But once poffefs'd of what with care you fave,
The wanton boys would pifs upon your grave.
Your fons of latitude that court your grace,
Tho' moft refembling you in form and face,
Are far the worst of your pretended race.
And, but I bluth your honefty to blot,
Pray God you prove them lawfully begot:
For in fome popish libels I have read,
The Wolf has been too busy in your bed;
At least her hinder parts, the belly-piece,
The paunch, and all that Scorpio claims, are his.
Their malice too a fore fufpicion brings;
For tho' they dare not bark, they fnarl at kings:
Nor blame them for intruding in your line;
Fat bishoprics are still of right divine.
Think you your 7 new French profelytes are come To ftarve abroad, because they starv'd at home? Your benefices twinkled from afar;
They found the new Meffiah by the star:
Thofe Swiffes fight on any fide for pay,
And 'tis the living that conforms, not they.
Mark with what management their tribes divide,
Some stick to you, and fome to t'other fide,
That many churches may for many mouths provide.
More vacant pulpits would more converts make;
All would have latitude enough to take:
The reft unbenefic'd your fects maintain;
For ordinations without cures are vain,
And chamber practice is a filent gain.
Your fons of breadth at home are much like thefe;
Their soft and yielding metals run with ease:
They melt, and take the figure of the mould;
But harden and preferve it beft in gold.
Your Delphic fword, the Panther then reply'd,
Is double-edg'd, and cuts on either fide.
Some fons of mine, who bear upon their fhield
Three steeples argent in a fable field,
Have sharply tax'd your converts, who unfed
Have follow'd you for miracles of bread;
Such who themselves of no religion are,
Allur'd with gain, for any will declare.
Bare lies with bold affertions they can face;
But dint of argument is out of place.
The grim logician puts them in a fright;
'Tis easier far to flourish than to fight.
7 The French refugees that came into England after the revocation of the edict of Nantz.
Thus our eighth Henry's marriage they defame;
They fay the fchifm of beds began the game,
Divorcing from the church to wed the dame:
Tho' largely prov'd, and by himself profess'd,
That confcience, confcience would not let him reft:
I mean, not till poffefs'd of her he lov'd,
And old, uncharming Catherine was remov'd.
For fundry years before he did complain,
And told his ghoftly confeffor his pain.
With the fame impudence, without a ground,
They fay, that look the reformation round,
No treatise of humility is found.
But if none were, the gospel does not want;
Our Saviour preach'd it, and I hope you grant,
The fermon on the mount was proteftant.
No doubt, reply'd the Hind, as fure as all
The writings of Saint Peter and Saint Paul:
On that decifion let it ftand or fall.
Now for my converts, who, you fay, unfed
Have follow'd me for miracles of bread;
Judge not by hearfay, but obferve at least,
If fince their change their loaves have been increas'd.
The Lion buys no converts; if he did,
Beafts would be fold as faft as he could bid.
Tax thofe of interest who conform for gain,
Or ftay the market of another reign:
Your broad-way fons would never be too nice
To close with Calvin, if he paid their price;
But rais'd three steeples higher would change their notę,
And quit the caflock for the canting-coat,
Now, if you damn this cenfure, as too bold,
Judge by yourselves, and think not others fold.
Mean-time my fons accus'd, by fame's report,
Pay fmall attendance at the Lion's court,
Nor rife with early crowds, nor flatter late;
For filently they beg who daily wait,
Preferment is bestow'd that comes unfought;
Attendance is a bribe, and then 'tis bought.
How they should fpeed, their fortune is untry'd;
For not to afk, is not to be deny'd.
For what they have, their God and king they blefs,
And hope they should not murmur, had they lefs.
But if reduc'd fubfiftence to implore,
In common prudence they would pass your door.
Unpity'd Hudibrafs, your champion friend,
Has fhewn how far your charities extend.
This lafting verse shall on his tomb be read,
"He fham'd you living, and upbraids you dead."
With odious atheist names you load your foes;
Your liberal clergy why did I expose?
It never fails in charities like those.
In climes where true religion is profefs'd,
That imputation were no laughing jeft.
But imprimatur 8, with a chaplain's name,
Is here fufficient licence to defame.
What wonder is't that black detraction thrives;
The homicide of names is lefs than lives;
And yet the perjur'd murderer furvives.
This faid, the paus'd a little, and fupprefs'd
The boiling indignation of her breast.
She knew the virtue of her blade, nor would
Pollute her fatire with ignoble blood:
Her panting foe the faw before her eye,
And back the drew the fhining weapon dry.
So when the generou: Lion has in fight
His equal match, he rouzes for the fights
But when his foe lies proftrate on the plain,
He fheaths his paws, uncurls his angry mane,
8 The bishop of London and his chaplains had formerly the examination of all books, and none could be printed without their imprimatur, or licence.