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O happy Monarch, fent by Heav'n to bless
To teach Religion, Rapine to restrain,
Imitated from CHAUCER, and Inlarg’d.
Parish-Priest was of the Pilgrim-Train;
His Eyes diffus'd a venerable Grace, And Charity it self was in his Face. Rich was bis Soul, though his Attire was poor; (As God had cloath'd his own Embassador ;) For such, on Earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore. Of Sixty Years he seem'd; and well might last To Sixty more, but that he liy'd too fast;
Refin'd himself to Soul, to curb the Sense;
For, letting down the golden Chain from high, į He drew his Audience upward to the Sky:
And oft, with holy Hymns, he charm'd their Ears:
For Fear but freezes Minds; but Love,like Heat, Fxbales the Soul sublime, to seek her Native Seat.
To Threats, the stubborn Sinner oft is hard:
Lightnings and Thunder (Heav'ns Artillery)
The Tythes, his Parith freely paid, he took;
Yet, of his little, he had some to spare,
True Priests; he said, and Preachers of the Word;
Were only Stewards of their Sov'raign Lord; Ets Nothing was theirs ; but all the publick Store: pret Intrusted Riches, to relieve the Poor.
Who, slou’d they steal, for want of his Relief;
Wide was his Parish; not contracted close
All this, the good old Mani perform'd alone)