Not to do what you lift, because you may,
Let cool discretion warm defires allay;
And itching curiosity believe
A lurking taint deriv'd from mother Eve.
Spare then the men, ye fair, and frankly own,
Your fex, like ours, has had its Phaeton.
HEN I first came to London, I rambled about
From fermon to fermon, took a flice and went out.
Then on me, in divinity batchelor, try'd
Many priests to obtrude a Levitical bride;
And urging their various opinions, intended
To make me wed systems, which they recommended.
Said a letch'rous old fry'r skulking near Lincoln's-Inn,
(Whose trade's to abfolve, but whose paftime's to fin;
Who, fpider-like, feizes weak proteftant flies,
Which hung in his fophiftry cobweb he spies ;)
Ah pity your foul, for without our church pale,
If
you happen to die, to be damn'd you can't fail;
The bible, you boaft, is a wild revelation :
Hear a church that can't err if you hope for salvation.
Said a formal non-con, (whose rich stock of grace Lies forward expos'd in shop-window of face,)
Ah! pity your foul: come, be of our fect:
For then you are fafe, and may plead you're elect.
As it stands in the Acts, we can prove ourselves faints,
Being Chrift's little flock every where spoke against.
Said a jolly church parfon, (devoted to ease,
While penal law dragons guard his golden fleece,)
If you pity your foul, I pray liften to neither;
The first is in error, the last a deceiver:
That ours is the true church, the sense of our tribe is,
And furely in medio tutiffimus ibis.
Said a a yea and nay friend with a stiff hat and band, (Who while he talk'd gravely would hold forth his hand,) Dominion and wealth are the aim of all three, Though about ways and means they may all disagree; Then prithee be wife, go the quakers by-way, 'Tis plain, without turnpikes, fo nothing to pay.
On BARCLAY'S Apology for the Quakers.
HESE fheets primæval doctrines yield,
Where revelation is reveal'd:
Soul-phlegm from literal feeding bred,
Systems lethargic to the head
They purge, and yield a diet thin,
That turns to gofpel-chyle within.
Truth fublimate may here be seen
Extracted from the parts terrene.
In these is fhewn, how men obtain
What of Prometheus poets feign:
To scripture-plainness dress is brought,
And speech, apparel to the thought.
They hiss from inftinct at red coats,
And war, whose work is cutting throats,
Forbid, and press the law of love:
Breathing the spirit of the dove.
Lucrative doctrines they deteft,
As manufactur'd by the priest,
And throw down turnpikes, where we pay
For ftuff, which never mends the way;
And tythes, a Jewish tax, reduce,
And frank the gospel for our use.
They fable standing armies break;
But the militia useful make:
Since all unhir'd may preach and pray,.
Taught by these rules as well as they;
Rules, which, when truths themselves reveal,
Bid us to follow what we feel.
The world can't hear the small still voice,
Such is its bustle and its noise:
;
Reason the proclamation reads,
But not one riot paffion heeds.
Wealth, honour, power the graces are,
Which here below our homage share:
They, if one votary they find
To mistress more divine inclin'd,
In truth's pursuit to cause delay
Throw golden apples in his way,
Place me, O heav'n, in some retreat,
There let the serious death-watch beat,
There let me felf in filence fhun,
To feel thy will, which should be done.
Then comes the Spirit to our hut,
When fast the fenfes' doors are fhut;
For fo divine and pure a guest
The emptieft rooms are furnish'd best.
O Contemplation! air ferene
From damps of fenfe, and fogs of spleen!
Pure mount of thought! thrice holy ground,
Where grace, when waited for, is found.
Here 'tis the foul feels fudden youth,
And meets exulting, virgin Truth;
Here, like a breeze of gentlest kind,
Impulses ruftle through the mind;
Here shines that light with glowing face,
The fufe divine, that kindles grace;
Which, if we trim our lamps, will last,
'Till darkness be by dying past,
And then goes out at end of night,
Extinguish'd by superior light.
Ah me! the heats and colds of life,
Pleasure's and pain's eternal ftrife,
Breed ftormy paffions, which confin'd,
Shake, like th' Æolian cave, the mind,
And raise despair; my lamp can last,
Plac'd where they drive the furious blast.
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