And even the sharpest eye that has the prospect seen,
Confesses ignorance to judge between;
And must to human reasoning opposite conclude,
To point out which is moderation, which is fortitude.
XI.
Thus Sancroft, in the exaltation of retreat,
Shows lustre that was shaded in his seat;
Short glimm'rings of the prelate glorified;
Which the disguise of greatness only served to hide.
Why should the Sun, alas, be proud
To lodge behind a golden cloud;
Though fringed with ev'ning gold the cloud appears so gay,
'Tis but a lowborn vapour kindled by a ray;
At length 'tis overblown and past,
Puff'd by the people's spightful blast,
The dazzling glory dimms their prostituted sight,
No deflowerd eye can face the naked light:
Yet does this high perfection well proceed
From strength of its own native seed,
This wilderness the world, like that poetick wood of old,
Bears one, and but one branch of gold,
Where the bless'd spirit lodges like the dove,
And which (to heavenly soil transplanted) will improve,
To be, as 'twas below, the brightest plant above;
For, whate'er theologick lev'llers dream,
There are degrees above I know
As well as here below,
(The goddess Muse herself has told me so)
Where high patrician souls dress'd heavenly gay,
Sit clad in lawn of purer woven day,
