Shew more occafion for your discontent ;
Your love, the Wolf, would help you to invent :
Some German quarrel, or, as times go now,
Some French, where force is uppermoft, will do.
When at the fountain's head, as merit ought
To claim the place, you take a fwilling draught,
How eafy 'tis an envious eye to throw,
And tax the sheep for troubling ftreams below;
Or call her (when no farther cause you find)
An enemy profefs'd of all your kind.

But then perhaps, the wicked world would think,
The Wolf defign'd to eat, as well as drink.
This laft illufion gall'd the Panther more,
Because indeed it rubb'd upon the fore.

Yet feem'd the not to winch, tho' fhrew'dly pain'd:
But thus her paffive character maintain'd.

I never grudg'd, whate'er my foes report,
Your flaunting fortune in the Lion's court.
You have your day, or you are much bely'd,
But I am always on the suffering side:
You know my doctrine, and I need not fay
I will not, but I cannot difobey.
On this firm principle I ever stood;
He of my fons who fails to make it good,
By one rebellious act renounces to my blood.

Ah, faid the Hind, how many fons have you,
Who call you mother, whom you never knew!
But most of them, who that relation plead,
Are fuch ungracious youths as wish you dead.
They gape at rich revenues which you hold,
And fain would nibble at your grandame gold;

Enquire into our years, and laugh to find
Your crazy temper fhews you much declin'd.
Were you not dim, and doted, you might fee
A pack of cheats that claim a pedegree,
No more of kin to you, than you to me.
Do not you know, that, for a little coin,
Heralds can foift a name into the line:
They afk you bleffing but for what you have,
But once poffefs'd of what with care you fave,
The wanton boys would pifs upon your grave.
Your fons of latitude that court your grace,
Tho' most refembling you in form and face,
Are far the worst of your pretended race.
And, but I blush your honesty to blot,
Pray God you prove 'em lawfully begot :
For, in fome popish libels I have read,
The Wolf has been too bufy in your bed;
At least her hinder parts, the belly-piece,
The paunch, and all that Scorpio claims, are his.
Their malice too a fore fufpicion brings;
For tho' they dare not bark, they fnarl at kings:
Nor blame 'em for intruding in your line;
Fat bishoprics are still of right divine.

Think you, your new French profelytes are come To starve abroad, because they starv'd at home? Your benefices twinkl'd from afar;

They found the new Meffiah by the star;
Thofe Swiffes fight on any fide for pay,
And 'tis the living that conforms, not they.
Mark with what management their tribes divide;
Some stick to you, and fome to t'other fide,

More vacant pulpits would more converts make;
All would have latitude enough to take;
The reft unbenefic'd your fects maintain;
For ordinations without cures are vain,
And chamber practife is a fient gain.

Your fons of breadth at home are much like thefe;
'Their foft and yielding metals run with ense;
They melt, and take the figure of the mould;
But harden, and preterve it best in gold.

Your Delphic word, the Panther then reply'd,
Is double-edg'd, and cuts on either fide.
Some fons of mine, who bear upon their fhield
Three fteeples argent in a fable field,
Have fharply tax'd your converts, who un fed
Have follow'd you for niiracles of bread;
Such who themselves of no religion are,
Allur'd with gain, for any will declare.
Bare lies with bold affertions they can face;
But dint of argument is out of place.
The grim logician puts 'em in a fright;
'Tis easier far to flourish than to fight.

Thus our eighth Henry's marriage they defame;
They fay, the fchifm of beds began the game,
Divorcing from the church to wed the dame:
Tho' largely prov'd, and by himself profess'd,
That confcience, confcience would not let him reft;
I mean, not 'till pofiefs'd of her he lov'd,
And old uncharming Catharine was remov'd..
For fundry years before he did complain,
And told his ghoftly confeffor his pain;

With the fame impudence, without a ground,
They fay, that, look the reformation round,
No Treatife of Humility is found.

But if none were, the gofpel does not want;
Our Saviour preach'd it, and I hope you grant,
The fermon on the mount was Proteftant.

No doubt, reply'd the Hind, as fure as all
The writings of St. Peter and St. Paul;
On that decifion let it stand or fall.

Now, for my converts, who, you say, unfed
Have follow'd me for miracles of bread;
Judge not by hear-fay, but observe at least,

If fince their change, their loaves have been increast.
The Lion buys no converts; if he did,

Beafts would be fold as faft as he could bid.
'Fax thofe of int'reft, who conform for gain,
Or stay the market of another reign;
Your broadway fons would never be too nice
To clofe with Calvin, if he paid their price;
But, rais'd three fteeples high'r, would change their note,
And quit the caflock for the canting-coat.

Now, if you damn this cenfure, as too bold,
Judge by yourselves, and think not others fold.
Mean-time my fons accus'd, by fame's report,
Pay fmall attendance at the Lion's court,
Nor rife with early crowds, nor flatter late;
For filently they beg who daily wait.
Preferment is beftow'd that comes unfought;
Attendance is a bribe, and then 'tis bought.
How they should speed, their fortue is untry'd
For not to ask, is not to be deny'd.

For what they have, their God and king they blefs,
And hope they should not murmur, had they lefs.
But, if reduc'd fubfiftence to implore,

In common prudence they would pass your door.
Unpity'd Hudibras, your champion friend,
Has fhewn how far your charities extend.
This lafting verfe fhall on his tomb be read,
"He fham'd you living, and upbraids you dead.”
With odious atheist names you load your foes;
Your lib'ral clergy why did I expofe?

It never fails in charities like thofe.

In climes where true religion is profefs'd,
That imputation were no laughing jest,
But Imprimatur, with a chaplain's name,
Is here fufficient licence to defame.

What wonder is't that black detraction thrives?
The homicide of names is less than lives;
And yet the perjur'd murderer furvives!

This faid, the paus'd a little, and fupprefs'd
The boiling indignation of her breast.
She knew the virtue of her blade, nor wou'd
Pollute her fatire with ignoble blood:
Her panting foe fhe faw before her eye,
And back the drew the fhining weapon dry.
So when the gen'rous Lion has in sight,
His equal match, he rouzes for the fight;
But when his foe lies proftrate on the plain,
He fheaths his paws, uncurls his angry mane;
And, pleas'd with bloodless honours of the day,
Walks over, and difdains th' inglorious prey.
So James, if great with lefs we may compare,
Arrefts his rolling thunder-bolts in air;