In Volumes prov'd the Church without Defence,
By nothing guarded but by Providence:
How Grace and Moderation disagree;
And Violence advances Charity.
Thus writ 'till none would read, becoming soon
A wretched Scribler, of a rare Buffoon.
Mankind my fond propitious Pow'r has try'd,
Too oft to own, too much to be deny'd.
And all I ask are Shades and silent Bow'rs,
To pass in soft Forgetfullness my Hours.
Oft have my Fears some distant Villa chose,
O'er their Quietus where fat Judges dose,
And lull their Cough and Conscience to repose:
Or if some Cloyster's Refuge I implore,
Where holy Drones o'er dying Tapers snore:
The Peals of [1]Nassau Arms these Eyes unclose,
Mine he molests, to give the World Repose.
That Ease I offer with Contempt He flies,
His Couch a Trench, his Canopy the Skies.
Nor Climes nor Seasons his Resolves controul,
Th' Æquator has no Heat, no Ice the Pole.
With Arms resistless o'er the Globe he flies;
And leaves to Jove the Empire o' the Skies.
But as the slothful God to yawn begun,
He shook off the dull Mist, and thus went on.
'Twas in this rev'rend Dome I sought Repose,
These Walls were that Asylum I had chose.
- ↑ See Boil. Lut.
