CANTO IV.
67
Tho' from the distant Street the piercing Sound
Shou'd wake the Snoring Footmen, stretch'd around,
And penetrate without the least Regard
That sacred Calm, where Noise is never heard,
Can you Conceive, my Lord, when peaceful Shades
Have bound 'em fast co their Inchanting Beds,
We shou'd the Sluggard's Iron-slumbers break,
Whom Six Bells thirty Years cou'd never Wake?
Can two weak Chanters Voices e'er perform
What is a Work for Thunder or a Storm?
The Warm Old Man Replies, I see what Ends
You Wish, and whither this Oration tends.
I see, your Dastard Souls the Prelate dread;
Yes, of the haughty Prelate You're afraid;
Ye Servile Wretches; I have seen you stand
Bending your Necks beneath his Blessing Hand.
Go,
