There some high-spirited throne to Sancroft shall be given,
In the metropolis of Heaven;
Chief of the mitred saints, and from archprelate here,
Translated to archangel there.
XII.
Since, happy saint, since it has been of late
Either our blindness or our fate,
To lose the providence of thy cares,
Pity a miserable church's tears,
That begs the powerful blessing of thy pray'rs,
Some angel say, what were the nation's crimes,
That sent these wild reformers to our times;
Say what their senseless malice meant,
To tear religion's lovely face;
Strip her of ev'ry ornament and grace:
In striving to wash off th' imaginary paint:
Religion now does on her deathbed lie,
Heart sick of a high fever and consuming atrophy;
How the physicians swarm to show their mortal skill,
And by their college arts methodically kill:
Reformers and physicians differ but in name,
One end in both, and the design the same;
Cordials are in their talk, while all they mean
Is but the patient's death, and gain ——
Check in thy satire, angry Muse,
Or a more worthy subject choose:
Let not the outcasts of this outcast age
Provoke the honour of my Muse's rage,
Nor be thy mighty spirit rais'd,
Since Heaven and Cato both are pleas'd —
[The rest of the poem is lost.]
