Reftlefs in Change, and perjur'd to a Proverb.
They love Religion fweeten'd to the Senfe;
A good luxurious palatable Faith.
Thus Vice and Godliness, prepofterous Pair,
Ride Cheek by Jowl! But Churchmen hold the Reins;
And when-e'er Kings would lower Clergy Greatness,
They'll learn too late what Pow'r the Preachers have,
And whofe the Subjects are.
By Heav'n, 'twas never well fince fawcy Priests
Grew to be Mafters of the lift'ning Herd,
And into Mitres cleft the regal Crown.
Empire, thou poor and defpicable thing,
When fuch as these unmake or make a King! Dr. Cong, of Gran, Obferve the mountain Billows of the Main,
Blown by the Winds into a raging Storm;
Brush off those Winds, and the high Waves return
Into their quiet firft created Calm:
Such is the Rage of busy bluft'ring Crowds,
Tormented by th'Ambition of the Great.
Cut off the Caufes and th'Effects will cease,
And all the moving Madness fall in Peace.
I have no Tafte
Of popular Applause, the noify Praise
Of giddy Crowds as changeable as Winds,
Still vehement, and ftill without a Cause:
Servants to Chance, and blowing in the Tide
Of fwoln Succefs; but veering with its Ebb,
It leaves the Channel dry.
As when in Tumults rife th'ignoble Crowd,
Mad are their Motions, and their Tongues are loud;
And Stones and Brands in rattling Vollies fly,
And all the ruftick Arms that Fury can fupply.
If then fome grave and pious Man appear,"
They hush their Noife and lend a lift'ning Ear;
He fooths with fober Words their angry Mood,
And quenches their innate Defire of Blood.
The giddy Vulgar, as their Fancies guide,
With Noise fay nothing, and in Parts divide.
In Tumults People reign and Kings obey. Dr. Cong. of Gran.
The People like a headlong Torrent go,
And ev'ry Dam they break or overflow:
But unoppos'd they either lofe their Force,
Or wind in Volumes to their former Courfe. Dr. Conq. of Grani Their Fright to no Perfwasions will give Ear,
There's a deaf Madness in a People's Fear. Dryd, Cong, of Grans POPULAR.
Th'admiring Crowd are dazled with Surprize, And on his goodly Perfon feed their Eyes:
His Joy conceal'd, he fets himself to show,
On each Side bowing popularly low:
His Looks, his Geftures, and his Words he frames,
And with familiar Eafe repeats their Names.
Thus form'd by Nature, furnish'd out with Arts,
He glides unfelt into their fecret Hearts;
Fame runs before him as the morning Star,
And Shouts of Joy falute him from afar.
Each House receives him as a Guardian-God,
And confecrates the Place of his Abode.
The People rend the Skies with loud Applause, And Heav'n can hear no other Name but yours; The thronging Crowds prefs on you as you pass,
And with their eager Joy make Triumph flow. Dryd, Span. Fry, Thou art thy longing Country's Darling and Defire,
Their cloudy Pillar and their Guardian Fire;
Their fecond Mofes, whofe extended Wand
Divides the Seas, and fhews the promis'd Land:
Whofe dawning Day in ev'ry diftant Age,
Has exercis'd the facred Prophet's Rage;
The People's Pray'r, the glad Diviner's Theme,
The young Mens Vifion and the old Mens Dream.
Thee Saviour, thee the Nation's Vows confefs;
And, never fatisfy'd with feeing, blefs.
Swift unbespoken Pomps thy Steps proclaim,
And ftamm'ring Babes are taught to lifp thy Name.
All Tongues fpeak of him, and the bleared Sights
Are fpectacled to fee him. Your pratling Nurfe
Into a Rapture lets her Bady cry,
While the chats him. The Kitchin Malkin pins
Her richeft Lockram 'bout her reeky Neck,
Clamb'ring the Walls to fee him :
Stalls, Bulks, Windows are fmother'd up,
Leads fill'd, and Ridges hors'd.
I've seen the dumb Men throng to fee him,
And the Blind to hear him fpeak. The Nobles bended
As to Jove's Statue; and the Commons made
A Show'r and Thunder with their Caps and Shouts.
Obferve in this fmall Phial certain Death;
It holds a Poyfon of fuch deadly Force,
Should Efculapius drink it, in five Hours,
For then it works, the God himself were mortal.
I drew it from Nonacres horrid Spring:
All forts, and thro' all Nerves, Veins, Arteries,
Ev'n with Extremity of Froft it burns;
Drives the diftracted Soul about her House,
Who runs to all the Pores, the Doors of Life,
Till fhe is forc'd for Air to leave her Dwelling.
Alex. Search there, nay probe me, fearch my wounded Reins;
Oh! I am fhot, a forked burning Arrow
Sticks cross my Shoulders; the fad Venom flies
Like Lightning thro' my Flefh, my Blood, my Marrow.
Ha! what a Change of Torments I endure?
A Bolt of Ice runs hizzing through my Bowels,
'Tis fure the Arm of Death:
Cover me, for I freeze, my Teeth chatter,
And my Knees knock together.
Perd. Heav'n blefs the King!
Alex. Ha! who talks of Heaven?
I am all Hell, I burn, I burn agen.
My vital Spirits are quite parch'd, burnt up,
And all my fmoaky Entrails turn'd to Ashes.
Nothing in vain the Gods create;
This Bough was made to haften Fate.
'Twas in Compaffion of our Woe,
That Nature first made Poyfons grow,
For hopeless Wretches, fuch as I,
Kindly providing Means to die.
As Mothers do their Children keep,
So Nature feeds, and makes us fleep;
The Indifpos'd she does invite
To go to Bed before 'tis Night.
Dead I fhall be, as when unborn;
And then I knew nor Love nor Scorn.
Like Slaves redeem'd, Death fets us free
From Paffion and from Injury.
The Living, chain'd to Fortune's Wheel,
In Triumph led, her Changes feel;
And Conquerors kept Poyfons by,
Prepar'd for her Inconftancy.
Bays againft Thunder might defend their Brow;
But against Love and Fortune here's the Bough. Wal
Quick Shootings through my Limbs, and pricking Pains,
Qualms at my Heart, Convulfions in my Nerves,
Shiv'rings of Cold, and burning of my Entrails,
Within my little World make medly War,
Lofe and regain, beat and are beaten back,
As momentary Victors quit their Ground:
Some deadly Draught, fome Enemy to Life,
Boils in my Bowels, and works out my Soul.
PREDESTINATION and FREE WILL.
But here the Doctors eagerly difpute,
Some hold Predeftination abfolute :
Some Clerks maintain, that Heav'n at firft forefees,
And in the Virtue of Forefight decrees.
If this be fo, then Prefcience binds the Will,
And Mortals are not free to Good or Ill;
For what he firft forefaw he must ordain,
Or his eternal Prefcience may be vain:
As bad for us if Prefcience had not been;
For firft or laft he's Author of the Sin.
And who fays that, let the blafpheming Man
Say worse, ev'n of the Devil, if he can :
For how can that eternal Pow'r be juft
To punish Man, who fins because he muft?
Ot how can he reward a virtuous Deed,
Which is not done by us, but firft decreed?
I cannot boult this Matter to the Bran,
As Bradwardin and holy Auftin can:
If Prescience can determine Actions fo,
That we must do because he did foreknow;
Or that foreknowing, yet our Choice is free,
Not forc'd to fin by ftrict Neceffity:
This ftri&t Neceffity they fimple call;
Another fort there is conditional:
The first fo binds the Will, that things foreknown,
By Spontaneity not Choice are done..
Thus Galley-flaves tug willing at their Oar,
Content to work in Profpe&t of the Shore;
But would not work at all if not conftrain'd before.
The other does not Liberty reftrain,
-But Man may either act or may refrain;
Heav'n made us Agents free to Good or Ill,
And forc'd it not, tho' he forefaw the Will.
Freedom was first bestow'd on human Race,
And Prefcience only held the fecond Place.
If he could make fuch Agents wholly free,
I'll not difpute, the Point's too high for me;
For Heav'n's unfathom'd Power what Man can found,
Or put to his Omnipotence a Bound?
He made us to his Image all agree,
That Image is the Soul, and that must be,
Or not the Maker's Image, or be free.
But whether it had better Man had been
By Nature bound to Good, not free to Sin,
I wave, for fear of splitting on a Rock.
Dryd, the Cock and the
The
The Priesthood grofly cheat us with Free-will,
Will to do what? But what Heaven first decreed :
Our Actions then are neither good nor ill,
Since from eternal Causes they proceed.
Our Paffions, Fear and Anger, Love and Hate,
Meer fenfelefs Engines that are mov'd by Fate :
Like Ships on ftormy Seas without a Guide,
Toft by the Winds, and driven by the Tide.
Dryd. Span. Fry.
Hard State of Life! fince Heav'n foreknows my Will,
Why am I not ty'd up from doing Ill?
Why am I trufted with my felf at large?
When he's more able to sustain the Charge?
Since Angels fell, whofe Strength was more than mine,
'Twould fhew more Grace my Frailty to confine.
For knowing the Succefs, to leave me free,
Excufes him, and yet fupports not me.
A Parish-Priest was.of the Pilgrim-Train :
An awful, rev'rend, and religious Man.
His Eyes diffus'd a venerable Grace,
And Charity it felf was in his Face.
Rich was his Soul, tho' his Attire was poor,
As God had cloath'd his own Ambaffador ;
For fuch, on Earth, his bleft Redeemer bore.
Refin'd himself to Soul, to curb the Sense,
And made almoft a Sin of Abftinence.
Yet had his Afpe&t nothing of fevere,
But fuch a Face as promis'd him fincere.
Nothing referv'd, or fullen was to fee;
But fweet Regards, and pleafing Sanctity:
Mild was his Accent; and his Action free.
With Eloquence innate his Soul was arm'd ;
Tho' harfh the Precept, yet the Preacher charm'd.
He bore his great Commiffion in his Look:
But fweetly temper'd Awe, and foften'd all he spoke.
He taught the Gospel rather than the Law;
And forc'd himself to drive; but lov'd to draw.
For Fear but freezes Minds; but Love, like Heat,
Exhales the Soul fublime to feek her native Seat.
The Tythes, his Parifh freely paid, he took;
But never fu'd, or curs'd with Bell and Book.
With Patience bearing Wrong, but off'ring none,
Since ev'ry Man is free to lofe his own.
Yet of his little he had fome to spare,
To feed the Famifh'd, and to cloath the Bare.
And ftill he was at Hand, without Requeft,
To ferve the Sick, to fuccour the Diftrefs'd.
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