Poetical Works of John Dryden, Volume 1 — The Hind and the Panther Part 3

PART III.

Much malice, mingled with a little wit, Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ: Because the Muse has peopled Caledon With Panthers, Bears, and Wolves, and beasts unknown, As if we were not stock'd with monsters of our own.

Let Æsop answer, who has set to view Such kinds as Greece and Phrygia never knew;

And mother Hubbard,[118] in her homely dress, Has sharply blamed a British Lioness;

That queen, whose feast the factious rabble keep, 10 Exposed obscenely naked and asleep.

Led by those great examples, may not I The wanted organs of their words supply?

If men transact like brutes, 'tis equal then For brutes to claim the privilege of men.

Others our Hind of folly will indite, To entertain a dangerous guest by night.

Let those remember, that she cannot die Till rolling time is lost in round eternity;

Nor need she fear the Panther, though untamed, 20 Because the Lion's peace[119] was now proclaim'd: The wary savage would not give offence, To forfeit the protection of her prince;

But watch'd the time her vengeance to complete, When all her furry sons in frequent senate met;

Meanwhile she quench'd her fury at the flood, And with a lenten salad cool'd her blood.

Their commons, though but coarse, were nothing scant, Nor did their minds an equal banquet want.

For now the Hind, whose noble nature strove 30 To express her plain simplicity of love, Did all the honours of her house so well, No sharp debates disturb'd the friendly meal.

She turn'd the talk, avoiding that extreme, To common dangers past, a sadly-pleasing theme;

Remembering every storm which toss'd the state, When both were objects of the public hate, And dropp'd a tear betwixt for her own children's fate.

Nor fail'd she then a full review to make Of what the Panther suffer'd for her sake: 40 Her lost esteem, her truth, her loyal care, Her faith unshaken to an exiled heir,[120] Her strength to endure, her courage to defy;

Her choice of honourable infamy.

On these, prolixly thankful, she enlarged;

Then with acknowledgment herself she charged;

For friendship, of itself an holy tie, Is made more sacred by adversity.

Now should they part, malicious tongues would say, They met like chance companions on the way, 50 Whom mutual fear of robbers had possess'd;

While danger lasted, kindness was profess'd;

But that once o'er, the short-lived union ends;

The road divides, and there divide the friends.

The Panther nodded when her speech was done, And thank'd her coldly in a hollow tone: But said her gratitude had gone too far For common offices of Christian care.

If to the lawful heir she had been true, She paid but Cæsar what was Cæsar's due.

60 I might, she added, with like praise describe Your suffering sons, and so return your bribe: But incense from my hands is poorly prized;

For gifts are scorn'd where givers are despised.

I served a turn, and then was cast away;

You, like the gaudy fly, your wings display, And sip the sweets, and bask in your great patron's day.

This heard, the matron was not slow to find What sort of malady had seized her mind: Disdain, with gnawing envy, fell despite, 70 And canker'd malice stood in open sight: Ambition, interest, pride without control, And jealousy, the jaundice of the soul;

Revenge, the bloody minister of ill, With all the lean tormentors of the will.

'Twas easy now to guess from whence arose Her new-made union with her ancient foes, Her forced civilities, her faint embrace, Affected kindness with an alter'd face: Yet durst she not too deeply probe the wound, 80 As hoping still the nobler parts were sound: But strove with anodynes to assuage the smart, And mildly thus her medicine did impart.

Complaints of lovers help to ease their pain;

It shows a rest of kindness to complain;

A friendship loath to quit its former hold;

And conscious merit may be justly bold.

But much more just your jealousy would show, If others' good were injury to you: Witness, ye heavens, how I rejoice to see 90 Rewarded worth and rising loyalty!

Your warrior offspring that upheld the crown.

The scarlet honour of your peaceful gown, Are the most pleasing objects I can find, Charms to my sight, and cordials to my mind: When virtue spooms before a prosperous gale, My heaving wishes help to fill the sail;

And if my prayers for all the brave were heard, Cæsar should still have such, and such should still reward.

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 hoard.

If Cæsar 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 friendship'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 passive 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 piss upon your grave.

Your sons of latitude 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 God 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 latitude 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 shield 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 assertions 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 cassock for the canting-coat.

Now, if you damn this censure, as too bold, Judge by yourselves, and think not others sold.

Meantime my sons, accused by fame's report, Pay small attendance at the Lion's court, Nor rise with early crowds, nor flatter late;

For silently they beg who daily wait.

Preferment is bestow'd, that comes unsought;

Attendance is a bribe, and then 'tis bought.

240 How they should speed, their fortune is untried;

For not to ask, is not to be denied.

For what they have, their God and king they bless, And hope they should not murmur, had they less.

But if reduced, subsistence to implore, In common prudence they should pass your door.

Unpitied Hudibras,[122] your champion friend, Has shown how far your charities extend.

This lasting verse shall on his tomb be read, "He shamed you living, and upbraids you dead."

250 With odious atheist names[123] you load your foes;

Your liberal clergy why did I expose?

It never fails in charities like those.

In climes where true religion is profess'd, That imputation were no laughing jest.

But imprimatur,[124] with a chaplain's name, Is here sufficient licence to defame.

What wonder is't that black detraction thrives?

The homicide of names is less than lives;

And yet the perjured murderer survives.

260 This said, she paused a little, and suppress'd The boiling indignation of her breast.

She knew the virtue of her blade, nor would Pollute her satire with ignoble blood: Her panting foe she saw before her eye, And back she drew the shining weapon dry.

So when the generous Lion has in sight His equal match, he rouses for the fight;

But when his foe lies prostrate on the plain, He sheaths his paws, uncurls his angry mane, 270 And, pleased with bloodless honours of the day, Walks over and disdains the inglorious prey.

So James, if great with less we may compare, Arrests his rolling thunderbolts in air!

And grants ungrateful friends a lengthen'd space, To implore the remnants of long-suffering grace.

This breathing-time the matron took; and then Resumed the thread of her discourse again.

Be vengeance wholly left to powers divine, And let Heaven judge betwixt your sons and mine: 280 If joys hereafter must be purchased here With loss of all that mortals hold so dear, Then welcome infamy and public shame, And, last, a long farewell to worldly fame.

'Tis said with ease, but, oh, how hardly tried By haughty souls to human honour tied!

O sharp convulsive pangs of agonizing pride!

Down then, thou rebel, never more to rise, And what thou didst, and dost, so dearly prize, That fame, that darling fame, make that thy sacrifice.

290 'Tis nothing thou hast given, then add thy tears For a long race of unrepenting years: 'Tis nothing yet, yet all thou hast to give: Then add those may-be years thou hast to live: Yet nothing still; then poor, and naked come: Thy father will receive his unthrift home, And thy blest Saviour's blood discharge the mighty sum.

Thus (she pursued) I discipline a son, Whose uncheck'd fury to revenge would run: He champs the bit, impatient of his loss, 300 And starts aside, and flounders at the Cross.

Instruct him better, gracious God, to know, As thine is vengeance, so forgiveness too: That, suffering from ill tongues, he bears no more Than what his sovereign bears, and what his Saviour bore.

It now remains for you to school your child, And ask why God's anointed he reviled;

A king and princess dead!

did Shimei worse?

The cursor's punishment should fright the curse: Your son was warn'd, and wisely gave it o'er, 310 But he who counsell'd him has paid the score: The heavy malice could no higher tend, But woe to him on whom the weights descend.

So to permitted ills the Demon flies;

His rage is aim'd at him who rules the skies: Constrain'd to quit his cause, no succour found, The foe discharges every tire around, In clouds of smoke abandoning the fight;

But his own thundering peals proclaim his flight.

In Henry's change his charge as ill succeeds; 320 To that long story little answer needs: Confront but Henry's words with Henry's deeds.

Were space allow'd, with ease it might be proved, What springs his blessed Reformation moved.

The dire effects appear'd in open sight, Which from the cause he calls a distant flight, And yet no larger leap than from the sun to light.

Now let your sons a double pæan sound, A Treatise of Humility is found.

'Tis found, but better it had ne'er been sought, 330 Than thus in Protestant procession brought.

The famed original through Spain is known, Rodriguez' work, my celebrated son, Which yours, by ill-translating, made his own;

Conceal'd its author, and usurp'd the name, The basest and ignoblest theft of fame.

My altars kindled first that living coal;

Restore, or practice better, what you stole: That virtue could this humble verse inspire, 'Tis all the restitution I require.

340 Glad was the Panther that the charge was closed, And none of all her favourite sons exposed.

For laws of arms permit each injured man, To make himself a saver where he can.

Perhaps the plunder'd merchant cannot tell The names of pirates in whose hands he fell;

But at the den of thieves he justly flies, And every Algerine is lawful prize.

No private person in the foe's estate Can plead exemption from the public fate.

350 Yet Christian laws allow not such redress;

Then let the greater supersede the less.

But let the abettors of the Panther's crime Learn to make fairer wars another time.

Some characters may sure be found to write Among her sons; for 'tis no common sight, A spotted dam, and all her offspring white.

The savage, though she saw her plea controll'd, Yet would not wholly seem to quit her hold, But offer'd fairly to compound the strife, 360 And judge conversion by the convert's life.

'Tis true, she said, I think it somewhat strange, So few should follow profitable change: For present joys are more to flesh and blood, Than a dull prospect of a distant good.

'Twas well alluded by a son of mine (I hope to quote him is not to purloin), Two magnets, heaven and earth, allure to bliss;

The larger loadstone that, the nearer this: The weak attraction of the greater fails; 370 We nod a while, but neighbourhood prevails: But when the greater proves the nearer too, I wonder more your converts come so slow.

Methinks in those who firm with me remain, It shows a nobler principle than gain.

Your inference would be strong, the Hind replied, If yours were in effect the suffering side: Your clergy's sons their own in peace possess, Nor are their prospects in reversion less.

My proselytes are struck with awful dread; 380 Your bloody comet-laws hang blazing o'er their head;

The respite they enjoy but only lent, The best they have to hope, protracted punishment.

Be judge yourself, if interest may prevail, Which motives, yours or mine, will turn the scale.

While pride and pomp allure, and plenteous ease, That is, till man's predominant passions cease, Admire no longer at my slow increase.

By education most have been misled;

So they believe, because they so were bred.

390 The priest continues what the nurse began, And thus the child imposes on the man.

The rest I named before, nor need repeat: But interest is the most prevailing cheat, The sly seducer both of age and youth;

They study that, and think they study truth.

When interest fortifies an argument, Weak reason serves to gain the will's assent;

For souls, already warp'd, receive an easy bent.

Add long prescription of establish'd laws, 400 And pique of honour to maintain a cause, And shame of change, and fear of future ill, And zeal, the blind conductor of the will;

And chief among the still-mistaking crowd, The fame of teachers obstinate and proud, And, more than all, the private judge allow'd;

Disdain of Fathers which the dance began, And last, uncertain whose the narrower span, The clown unread, and half-read gentleman.

To this the Panther, with a scornful smile: 410 Yet still you travel with unwearied toil, And range around the realm without control, Among my sons for proselytes to prowl, And here and there you snap some silly soul.

You hinted fears of future change in state;

Pray heaven you did not prophesy your fate!

Perhaps you think your time of triumph near, But may mistake the season of the year;

The Swallow's[125] fortune gives you cause to fear.

For charity, replied the matron, tell 420 What sad mischance those pretty birds befell.

Nay, no mischance, the savage dame replied, But want of wit in their unerring guide, And eager haste, and gaudy hopes, and giddy pride.

Yet, wishing timely warning may prevail, Make you the moral, and I'll tell the tale.

The Swallow, privileged above the rest Of all the birds, as man's familiar guest, Pursues the sun in summer, brisk and bold, But wisely shuns the persecuting cold: 430 Is well to chancels and to chimneys known, Though 'tis not thought she feeds on smoke alone.

From hence she has been held of heavenly line, Endued with particles of soul divine.

This merry chorister had long possess'd Her summer seat, and feather'd well her nest: Till frowning skies began to change their cheer, And time turn'd up the wrong side of the year;

The shedding trees began the ground to strow With yellow leaves, and bitter blasts to blow.

440 Sad auguries of winter thence she drew, Which by instinct, or prophecy, she knew: When prudence warn'd her to remove betimes, And seek a better heaven, and warmer climes.

Her sons were summon'd on a steeple's height, And, call'd in common council, vote a flight;

The day was named, the next that should be fair: All to the general rendezvous repair, They try their fluttering wings, and trust themselves in air.

But whether upward to the moon they go, 450 Or dream the winter out in caves below, Or hawk at flies elsewhere, concerns us not to know.

Southwards, you may be sure, they bent their flight, And harbour'd in a hollow rock at night: Next morn they rose, and set up every sail;

The wind was fair, but blew a mackerel gale: The sickly young sat shivering on the shore, Abhorr'd salt water never seen before, And pray'd their tender mothers to delay The passage, and expect a fairer day.

460 With these the Martin readily concurr'd, A church-begot, and church-believing bird;

Of little body, but of lofty mind, Round-bellied, for a dignity design'd, And much a dunce, as Martins are by kind.

Yet often quoted Canon-laws, and Code, And Fathers which he never understood;

But little learning needs in noble blood.

For, sooth to say, the Swallow brought him in, Her household chaplain, and her next of kin: 470 In superstition silly to excess, And casting schemes by planetary guess: In fine, short-wing'd, unfit himself to fly, His fears foretold foul weather in the sky.

Besides, a Raven from a wither'd oak, Left of their lodging, was observed to croak.

That omen liked him not; so his advice Was present safety, bought at any price;

A seeming pious care, that cover'd cowardice.

To strengthen this, he told a boding dream 480 Of rising waters, and a troubled stream, Sure signs of anguish, dangers, and distress, With something more, not lawful to express: By which he slily seem'd to intimate Some secret revelation of their fate.

For he concluded, once upon a time, He found a leaf inscribed with sacred rhyme, Whose antique characters did well denote The Sibyl's hand of the Cumæan grot: The mad divineress had plainly writ, 490 A time should come (but many ages yet), In which, sinister destinies ordain, A dame should drown with all her feather'd train, And seas from thence be call'd the Chelidonian main.

At this, some shook for fear, the more devout Arose, and bless'd themselves from head to foot.

'Tis true, some stagers of the wiser sort Made all these idle wonderments their sport: They said, their only danger was delay, And he, who heard what every fool could say, 500 Would never fix his thought, but trim his time away.

The passage yet was good; the wind, 'tis true, Was somewhat high, but that was nothing new, No more than usual equinoxes blew.

The sun, already from the Scales declined, Gave little hopes of better days behind, But change, from bad to worse, of weather and of wind.

Nor need they fear the dampness of the sky Should flag their wings, and hinder them to fly 'Twas only water thrown on sails too dry.

510 But, least of all, philosophy presumes Of truth in dreams, from melancholy fumes: Perhaps the Martin, housed in holy ground, Might think of ghosts that walk their midnight round, Till grosser atoms, tumbling in the stream Of fancy, madly met, and clubb'd into a dream: As little weight his vain presages bear, Of ill effect to such alone who fear: Most prophecies are of a piece with these, Each Nostradamus can foretell with ease: 520 Not naming persons, and confounding times, One casual truth supports a thousand lying rhymes.

The advice was true; but fear had seized the most, And all good counsel is on cowards lost.

The question crudely put to shun delay, 'Twas carried by the major part to stay.

His point thus gain'd, Sir Martin dated thence His power, and from a priest became a prince.

He order'd all things with a busy care, And cells and refectories did prepare, 530 And large provisions laid of winter fare: But now and then let fall a word or two Of hope, that Heaven some miracle might show, And for their sakes the sun should backward go;

Against the laws of nature upward climb, 535 And, mounted on the Ram, renew the prime: For which two proofs in sacred story lay, Of Ahaz' dial, and of Joshua's day.

In expectation of such times as these, A chapel housed them, truly call'd of ease: 540 For Martin much devotion did not ask: They pray'd sometimes, and that was all their task.

It happen'd, as beyond the reach of wit Blind prophecies may have a lucky hit, That this accomplish'd, or at least in part, Gave great repute to their new Merlin's art.

Some Swifts, the giants of the Swallow kind, Large-limb'd, stout-hearted, but of stupid mind (For Swisses, or for Gibeonites design'd), These lubbers, peeping through a broken pane, 550 To suck fresh air, survey'd the neighbouring plain;

And saw (but scarcely could believe their eyes) New blossoms flourish, and new flowers arise;

As God had been abroad, and, walking there, Had left his footsteps, and reform'd the year: The sunny hills from far were seen to glow With glittering beams, and in the meads below The burnish'd brooks appear'd with liquid gold to flow.

At last they heard the foolish Cuckoo sing, Whose note proclaim'd the holiday of spring.

560 No longer doubting, all prepare to fly, And repossess their patrimonial sky.

The priest before them did his wings display;

And that good omens might attend their way, As luck would have it, 'twas St Martin's day.

Who but the Swallow triumphs now alone?

The canopy of heaven is all her own: Her youthful offspring to their haunts repair, And glide along in glades, and skim in air, And dip for insects in the purling springs, 570 And stoop on rivers to refresh their wings.

Their mothers think a fair provision made, That every son can live upon his trade: And, now the careful charge is off their hands, Look out for husbands, and new nuptial bands: The youthful widow longs to be supplied;

But first the lover is by lawyers tied To settle jointure-chimneys on the bride.

So thick they couple, in so short a space, That Martin's marriage-offerings rise apace.

Their ancient houses running to decay, Are furbish'd up, and cemented with clay; 580 They teem already; store of eggs are laid, And brooding mothers call Lucina's aid.

Fame spreads the news, and foreign fowls appear In flocks to greet the new returning year, To bless the founder, and partake the cheer.

And now 'twas time (so fast their numbers rise) To plant abroad, and people colonies.

The youth drawn forth, as Martin had desired 590 (For so their cruel destiny required), Were sent far off on an ill-fated day;

The rest would needs conduct them on their way, And Martin went, because he fear'd alone to stay.

So long they flew with inconsiderate haste, That now their afternoon began to waste;

And, what was ominous, that very morn The sun was enter'd into Capricorn;

Which, by their bad astronomer's account, That week the Virgin balance should remount.

600 An infant moon eclipsed him in his way, And hid the small remainders of his day.

The crowd, amazed, pursued no certain mark;

But birds met birds, and jostled in the dark: Few mind the public in a panic fright;

And fear increased the horror of the night.

Night came, but unattended with repose;

Alone she came, no sleep their eyes to close: Alone, and black she came; no friendly stars arose.

What should they do, beset with dangers round, 610 No neighbouring dorp,[126] no lodging to be found, But bleaky plains, and bare unhospitable ground.

The latter brood, who just began to fly, Sick-feather'd, and unpractised in the sky, For succour to their helpless mother call: She spread her wings; some few beneath them crawl;

She spread them wider yet, but could not cover all.

To augment their woes, the winds began to move, Debate in air, for empty fields above, Till Boreas got the skies, and pour'd amain 620 His rattling hailstones mix'd with snow and rain.

The joyless morning late arose, and found A dreadful desolation reign around-- Some buried in the snow, some frozen to the ground.

The rest were struggling still with death, and lay The Crows' and Ravens' rights, an undefended prey: Excepting Martin's race; for they and he Had gain'd the shelter of a hollow tree: But soon discover'd by a sturdy clown, He headed all the rabble of a town, 630 And finish'd them with bats, or poll'd them down.

Martin himself was caught alive, and tried For treasonous crimes, because the laws provide No Martin there in winter shall abide.

High on an oak, which never leaf shall bear, He breathed his last, exposed to open air;

And there his corpse, unbless'd, is hanging still, To show the change of winds with his prophetic bill.

The patience of the Hind did almost fail;

For well she mark'd the malice of the tale;[127] 640 Which ribald art their Church to Luther owes;

In malice it began, by malice grows;

He sow'd the Serpent's teeth, an iron-harvest rose.

But most in Martin's character and fate, She saw her slander'd sons, the Panther's hate, The people's rage, the persecuting state: Then said, I take the advice in friendly part;

You clear your conscience, or at least your heart: Perhaps you fail'd in your foreseeing skill, For Swallows are unlucky birds to kill: 650 As for my sons, the family is bless'd, Whose every child is equal to the rest;

No Church reform'd can boast a blameless line;

Such Martins build in yours, and more than mine: Or else an old fanatic[128] author lies, Who summ'd their scandals up by centuries.

But through your parable I plainly see The bloody laws, the crowd's barbarity;

The sunshine that offends the purblind sight: Had some their wishes, it would soon be night.

660 Mistake me not; the charge concerns not you: Your sons are malcontents, but yet are true, As far as non-resistance makes them so;

But that's a word of neutral sense, you know, A passive term, which no relief will bring, But trims betwixt a rebel and a king.

Rest well assured, the Pardelis replied, My sons would all support the regal side, Though Heaven forbid the cause by battle should be tried.

The matron answer'd with a loud Amen, 670 And thus pursued her argument again.

If, as you say, and as I hope no less, Your sons will practise what yourselves profess, What angry power prevents our present peace?

The Lion, studious of our common good, Desires (and kings' desires are ill withstood) To join our nations in a lasting love;

The bars betwixt are easy to remove;

For sanguinary laws were never made above.

If you condemn that prince of tyranny, 680 Whose mandate forced your Gallic friends to fly, Make not a worse example of your own;

Or cease to rail at causeless rigour shown, And let the guiltless person throw the stone.

His blunted sword your suffering brotherhood Have seldom felt; he stops it short of blood: But you have ground the persecuting knife, And set it to a razor edge on life.

Cursed be the wit, which cruelty refines, Or to his father's rod the scorpion's joins!

690 Your finger is more gross than the great monarch's loins.

But you, perhaps, remove that bloody note, And stick it on the first reformer's coat.

Oh, let their crime in long oblivion sleep!

'Twas theirs indeed to make, 'tis yours to keep.

Unjust, or just, is all the question now;

'Tis plain, that not repealing you allow.

To name the Test would put you in a rage;

You charge not that on any former age, But smile to think how innocent you stand, 700 Arm'd by a weapon put into your hand, Yet still remember that you wield a sword Forged by your foes against your sovereign lord;

Design'd to hew the imperial cedar down, Defraud succession, and dis-heir the crown.

To abhor the makers, and their laws approve, Is to hate traitors, and the treason love.

What means it else, which now your children say, We made it not, nor will we take away?

Suppose some great oppressor had by slight 710 Of law, disseised your brother of his right, Your common sire surrendering in a fright;

Would you to that unrighteous title stand, Left by the villain's will to heir the land?

More just was Judas, who his Saviour sold;

The sacrilegious bribe he could not hold, Nor hang in peace, before he render'd back the gold.

What more could you have done, than now you do, Had Oates and Bedlow, and their plot been true?

Some specious reasons for those wrongs were found; 720 Their dire magicians threw their mists around, And wise men walk'd as on enchanted ground.

But now when time has made the imposture plain (Late though he follow'd truth, and limping held her train), What new delusion charms your cheated eyes again?

The painted harlot might a while bewitch, But why the hag uncased, and all obscene with itch?