Plain Truths enough for needfull use they found; 409 But men wou'd still be itching to expound; Each was ambitious of th' obscurest place, No measure ta'n from Knowledge, all from GRACE.

Study and Pains were now no more their Care;

Texts were explain'd by Fasting and by Prayer:

This was the Fruit the private Spirit brought; Occasion'd by great Zeal and little Thought. While Crouds unlearn'd, with rude Devotion

warm,

About the Sacred Viands buz and swarm,
The Fly-blown Text creates a crawling Brood;
And turns to Maggols what was meant for
Food.
420

A Thousand daily Sects rise up, and dye ;
A Thousand more the perish'd Race supply:
So all we make of Heavens discover'd Will
Is, not to have it, or to use it ill.

Faith is not built on disquisitions vain ; 431 The things we must believe, are few and plain:

But since men will believe more than they need;

And every man will make himself a Creed,
In doubtfull questions 'tis the safest way
To learn what unsuspected Ancients say:
For 'tis not likely we should higher Soar
In search of Heav'n than all the Church before:
Nor can we be deceiv'd, unless we see
The Scripture and the Fathers disagree. 440
If after all, they stand suspected still,
(For no man's Faith depends upon his Will ;)
'Tis some Relief, that points not clearly
known,

Without much hazard may be let alone :
And after hearing what our Church can say,
If still our Reason runs another way,
That private Reason 'tis more Just to curb,
Than by Disputes the publick Peace disturb.
For points obscure are of small use to learn:

If others wreck us or we wreck our selves.

What then remains, but, waving each
Extreme,

The Tides of Ignorance, and Pride to stem ?
Neither so rich a Treasure to forgo;
Nor proudly seek beyond our pow'r to know:

Thus have I made my own Opinions clear: Yet neither Praise expect, not Censure fear : And this unpolish'd, rugged Verse I chose ; As fittest for Discourse, and nearest prose: For while from Sacred Truth I do not swerve, Tom Sternhold's or Tom Sha-ll's Rhimes will serve.

A

His Pious Brother, sure the best
Who ever bore that Name,
Was newly risen from his Rest,

And, with a fervent Flame,

His usual morning Vows had just addrest 40
For his dear Sovereign's Health;
And hop'd to have 'em heard,
In long increase of years,

In Honour, Fame, and Wealth:
Guiltless of Greatness, thus he always
pray'd,

Nor knew nor wisht those Vows he made On his own head shou'd be repay'd. Soon as th' ill-omen'd Rumour reacht his Ear, (Illnews is wing'd with Fate and flies apace) Who can describe th' Amazement in his Face!

50

Horrour in all his Pomp was there,
Mute and magnificent, without a Tear:
And then the Hero first was seen to fear.
Half unarray'd he ran to his Relief,
So hasty and so artless was his Grief:
Approaching Greatness met him with her

Charms

Of Power and future State;

But looked so ghastly in a Brother's Fate, He shook her from his Armes.

The Lines of that ador'd, forgiving Face, Distorted from their native grace; An Iron Slumber sat on his Majestick Eyes. The Pious Duke- -forbear, audacious Muse. No Terms thy feeble Art can use Are able to adorn so vast a Woe:

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