Volume I Part 32 (1/2)
The labour'd earth your pains have sow'd and till'd; 100 'Tis just you reap the product of the field: Yours be the harvest, 'tis the beggar's gain To glean the fallings of the loaded wain.
Such scatter'd ears as are not worth your care, Your charity, for alms, may safely spare, For alms are but the vehicles of prayer.
My daily bread is literally implored; I have no barns nor granaries to h.o.a.rd.
If Caesar to his own his hand extends, Say which of yours his charity offends: 110 You know he largely gives to more than are his friends.
Are you defrauded when he feeds the poor?
Our mite decreases nothing of your store.
I am but few, and by your fare you see My crying sins are not of luxury.
Some juster motive sure your mind withdraws, And makes you break our friends.h.i.+p's holy laws; For barefaced envy is too base a cause.
Show more occasion for your discontent; Your love, the Wolf, would help you to invent: 120 Some German quarrel, or, as times go now, Some French, where force is uppermost, will do.
When at the fountain's head, as merit ought To claim the place, you take a swilling draught, How easy 'tis an envious eye to throw, And tax the sheep for troubling streams below; Or call her (when no farther cause you find) An enemy possess'd of all your kind!
But then, perhaps, the wicked world would think, The Wolf design'd to eat as well as drink. 130
This last allusion gall'd the Panther more, Because indeed it rubb'd upon the sore.
Yet seem'd she not to wince, though shrewdly pain'd: But thus her pa.s.sive character maintain'd.
I never grudged, whate'er my foes report, Your flaunting fortune in the Lion's court.
You have your day, or you are much belied, But I am always on the suffering side: You know my doctrine, and I need not say, I will not, but I cannot disobey. 140 On this firm principle I ever stood; He of my sons who fails to make it good, By one rebellious act renounces to my blood.
Ah, said the Hind, how many sons have you, Who call you mother, whom you never knew!
But most of them who that relation plead, Are such ungracious youths as wish you dead.
They gape at rich revenues which you hold, And fain would nibble at your grandame Gold; Inquire into your years, and laugh to find 150 Your crazy temper shows you much declined.
Were you not dim and doted, you might see 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 foist a name into the line?
They ask you blessing but for what you have; But once possess'd of what with care you save, The wanton boys would p.i.s.s upon your grave.
Your sons of lat.i.tude that court your grace, 160 Though most resembling you in form and face.
Are far the worst of your pretended race.
And, but I blush your honesty to blot, Pray G.o.d you prove them lawfully begot: For in some Popish libels I have read, The Wolf has been too busy in your bed; At least her hinder parts, the belly-piece, The paunch, and all that Scorpio claims, are his.
Their malice too a sore suspicion brings; For though they dare not bark, they snarl at kings: 170 Nor blame them for intruding in your line; Fat bishoprics are still of right divine.
Think you your new French proselytes[121] are come To starve abroad, because they starved at home?
Your benefices twinkled from afar; They found the new Messiah by the star: Those Swisses fight on any side for pay, And 'tis the living that conforms, not they.
Mark with what management their tribes divide, Some stick to you, and some to the other side, 180 That many churches may for many mouths provide.
More vacant pulpits would more converts make; All would have lat.i.tude enough to take: The rest unbeneficed your sects maintain; For ordinations without cures are vain, And chamber practice is a silent gain.
Your sons of breadth at home are much like these; Their soft and yielding metals run with ease: They melt, and take the figure of the mould; But harden and preserve it best in gold. 190
Your Delphic sword, the Panther then replied, Is double-edged, and cuts on either side.
Some sons of mine, who bear upon their s.h.i.+eld Three steeples argent in a sable field, Have sharply tax'd your converts, who unfed Have follow'd you for miracles of bread; Such who themselves of no religion are, Allured with gain, for any will declare.
Bare lies with bold a.s.sertions they can face; But dint of argument is out of place. 200 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 schism of beds began the game, Divorcing from the Church to wed the dame: Though largely proved, and by himself profess'd, That conscience, conscience would not let him rest:
I mean, not till possess'd of her he loved, And old, uncharming Catherine was removed.
For sundry years before he did complain, 210 And told his ghostly confessor his pain.
With the same impudence without a ground, They say, that look the Reformation round, No Treatise of Humility is found.
But if none were, the gospel does not want; Our Saviour preach'd it, and I hope you grant, The Sermon on the Mount was Protestant.
No doubt, replied the Hind, as sure as all The writings of Saint Peter and Saint Paul: On that decision let it stand or fall. 220 Now for my converts, who, you say, unfed, Have follow'd me for miracles of bread; Judge not by hearsay, but observe at least, If since their change their loaves have been increased.
The Lion buys no converts; if he did, Beasts would be sold as fast as he could bid.
Tax those of interest who conform for gain, Or stay the market of another reign: Your broad-way sons would never be too nice To close with Calvin, if he paid their price; 230 But, raised three steeples higher, would change their note, And quit the ca.s.sock for the canting-coat.