Such scatter'd ears as are not worth your care,
Your charity for alms may safely spare,
For alms are but the vehicles of pray'r.
My daily bread is lit'rally implor'd;
I have no barns nor granaries to hoard.
If Cæsar to his own his hand extends,
Say, which of yours his charity offends:
You know he largely gives to more than are hi
friends.
Are you defrauded when he feeds the poor?
Our mitre decreases nothing of your store.
I am but few, and by your fare you see
My crying sins are not of luxury,
Some juster motive sure your mind withdraws,
And makes you break our friendship's holy laws;
For barefac'd envy is too base a cause.
Shew more occasion for your discontent;
Your love, the Wolf, would help you to invent:
Some German quarrel or as times go now,
Some French, where force is uppermost, will do.
When at the fountain's head, as merit ought
To claim the place, you take a swilling draught,
How easy 'tis an envious eye to throw,
And tax the sheep for troubling streams below;
Or call her (when no farther cause you find)
An enemy profess'd of all your kind;
But then, perhaps, the wicked world would think
The Wolf design'd to eat as well as drink.
This last illusion gall'd the Panther more,
Because, indeed, it rubb'd upon the sore:
Yet seem'd she not to winch, tho' shrewdly pain'd,
But thus her passive 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 suff'ring side:
You know my doctrine, and I need not say
I will not, but I cannot disobey.
On this firm principle I ever stood,
He of my sons who fails to make it good,
By one rebellious act renounces to my blood.
Ah! said the Hind, how many sons have you,
Who call you mother whom you never knew?
But most of them, who that relation plead,
Are such ungracious youths as wish you dead.
They gape at rich revenues which you hold,
And fain would nibble at your grandame Gold;
Inquire into our years and laugh to find
Your crazy temper shews you much declin❜d.
Were you not dim, and doted, you might see
A pack of cheats that claim a pedigree,
No more of kin to you than you to me.
Do you not know that, for a little coin,
Heralds can foist a name into the line?
They ask you blessing but for what you have,
But once possess'd of what with care you save,
The wanton boys would piss upon your grave.
Your sons of latitude that court your grace, 160
Tho' most resembling you in form and face,
Are far the worst of your pretended race;
And, but I blush your honesty to blot,
Pray God you prove 'em lawfully begot:
For in some 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 the scorpio claims are his.
Their malice too a sore suspicion brings;
For tho' they dare not bark, they snarl at kings;'
Nor blame 'em for intruding in your line;
Fat bishopricks are still of right divine.
Think you your new French proselytes are come To starve abroad, because they stary'd at home? Your benefices twinkled from afar;
They found the new Messiah by the star:
Those Swisses fight on any side for pay,
And 'tis the living that conforms, not they.
Mark with what management their tribes divide:
Some stick to you, and some to t' other side,
That many churches may for many moths pro-
vide.
More vacant pulpits would more converts make;
All would have latitude enough to take;
The rest unbenefic'd your sects maintain;
For ordinations without cures are vain,
And chamber practice is a silent gain.
Your sons of breadth at home are much like these;
Their soft and yielding metals run with ease;
They melt, and take the figure of the mould,
But harden, and preserve it best in gold.
Your Delphic sword, the Panther then reply'd,
Is double-edg'd, and cuts on either side.
Some sons of mine, who bear upon their shield
Three steeples argent in a sable 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 assertions they can face,
But dint of argument is out of place :
The grim logician puts 'em in a fright;
'Tis easier far to flourish than to fight.
Thus our eighth Henry's marriage they defame;
They say the schism of beds began the game,
Divorcing from the church to wed the dame:
Tho' largely prov'd, and by himself profess'd,
That conscience, conscience would not let him rest;
I mean not till possess'd of her he lov'd,
And old uncharming Catharine was remov'd.
For sundry years before he did complain,
And told his ghostly confessor his pain;
With the same imprudence, without a ground,
They say, 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
His sermon on the mount was Protestant,
No doubt, reply'd the Hind, as sure as all
The writings of St. Peter and St. Paul;
On that decision let it stand or fall.
Now, for my converts, who, you say, unfed,
Have follow'd me for miracles of bread;
Judge not by hear-say, but observe, at least,
If since their change their loaves have been increast.
The Lion buys no converts; if he did,
Beasts would be sold as fast as he could bid.
Tax those of int'rest who conform for gain,
Or stay the market of another reign;
Your broadway sons would never be too nice
To close with Calvin, if he paid their price;
But, rais'd three steeples high'r, would change their
And quit the cassock for the canting coat.
Now, if you damn this censure, as too bold,
Judge by yourselves, and think not others sold.
Mean-time my sons accus'd by Fame's report,
Pay small attendance at the Lion's court,
Nor rise with early crowds, nor flatter late,
For silently they beg who daily wait.
Preferment is bestow'd that comes unsought,
Attendance is a bribe, and then 'tis bought.
How they should speed, their fortune is untry'd,
For not to ask is not to be deny'd.
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