You have your day, or you are much bely'd,
But I am always on the suffering fide:
You know my doctrine, and I need not fay
I will not, but I cannot disobey.
On this firm principle I ever stood;
He of my fons who fails to make it good,
By one rebellious act renounces to my blood.
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
They gape at rich revenues which
you hold, And fain would nibble at your grandame
Enquire into your years, and laugh to find
Your crazy temper shews you much declin'd.
Were you not dim and doted, you might fee
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 foift a name into the line:
They ask
you bleffing but for what you have,
But once poffefs'd of what with care you fave,
The wanton boys would piss 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 blush your honefty to blot,
Pray God you prove
them lawfully begot:
For in fome popish libels I have read,
The Wolf has been too bufy 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 suspicion 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 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 ftar;
Thofe Swiffes fight on any fide for pay,
And 'tis the living that conforms, not they.
Mark with what management their tribes divide,
Some flick 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 foft and yielding metals run with ease :
They melt, and take the figure of the mould;
But harden and preserve it beft in gold.
Your Delphic sword, the Fanther then reply'd, Is double-edg'd, and cuts on either fide. Some fons of mine, who bear upon their shield Three fteeples 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. Thus our eighth Henry's marriage they defame; They say the fchifm of beds began the game, Divorcing from the church to wed the dame : Tho largely prov'd, and by himfelf profefs'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 gofpel 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 intereft who conform for gain,
Or stay 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
note,
And quit the caflock for the canting-coat.
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 speed, their fortune is untry'd;
For not to ask, is not to be deny'd.
For what they have, their God and king they bless,
And hope they fhould not murmur, had they lefs.
But if reduc'd fubfiftence to implore,
In common prudence they would pafs your door. Unpity'd Hudibrafs, your champion friend,
This lafting verfe fhall on his tomb be read,
"He sham'd you living, and upbraids you
With odious atheist names you load your foes;
Your liberal clergy why did I expofe?
It never fails in charities like those.
In climes where true religion is profefs'd,
That imputation were no laughing jest.
But imprimatur, with a chaplain's name,
Is here fufficient licence to defame.
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