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The mitre, which his sacred head has worn, Was, like his Master's Crown, inwreath'd with thorn. Death's sting is swallow'd up in victory at last,
The bitter cup is from him past :
Fortune in both extremes
Yet to firm heavenly minds,
Confesses ignorance to judge between; And must to human reasoning opposite conclude, To point out which is moderation, which is forti
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 low-born vapour kindled by a ray:
At length 'tis overblown and past,
Puff’d by the people's spiteful blast,
No deflowered eye can face the naked light :
From strength of its own native seed,
And which (to heavenly soil transplanted) will im
prove, To be, as 'twas below, the brightest plant above; For, whate'er theologic 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. There some high-spirited throne to Sancroft shall be
given, In the metropolis of Heaven; Chief of the mitred saints, and from archprelate
0 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 pow'rful blessing of thy pray’rs.
To tear religion's lovely face:
Religion now does on her death-bed lie,
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-
Or a more worthy subject choose :
Nor be thy mighty spirit rais’d,
[The rest of the poem is lost.]
ODE TO THE HON. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE.
WRITTEN AT MOOR-PARK IŃ JUNE 1689.
1 Virtue, the greatest of all monarchies !
Till, its first emperor, rebellious man,
Depos'd from off his seat,
By many a petty lord possess'd,
'Tis you who must this land subdue,
Like the philosopher's stone,
With rules from musty morals brought,
With antique relics of the dead,
And we, the bubbled fools,
We oddly Plato's paradox make good,
Stale memorandums of the schools :
In that deep grave a book ;
Her priest, her train, and followers show
Affect ill-manner'd pedantry,
And, sick with dregs and knowledge grown,
Which greedily they swallow down, Still cast it up, and nauseate company.
(If it may lawful be
(Which since has seiz'd on all the rest) That knowledge forfeits all humanity; Taught us, like Spaniards, to be proud and poor,
And Aling our scraps before our door!
You cannot be compar'd to one:
Borrow from every one a grace;
Their courting a retreat like you,
Your happy frame at once controls
Let not old Rome boast Fabius's fate;
He sav'd his country by delays,
But you by peace *.
* Sir William Temple was ambassador to the States of Hol. land, and had a principal share in the negotiations which preceded the treaty of Nimeguen, 1679.