He's not of none, nor worst, that seeks the best.
To adore, or scorn an Image, or proteft,
May all be bad. Doubt wifely in frange way
To ftand inquiring right, is not to firay :
To fleep, or run wrong, is. On a buge hill, Cragged and fleep, Truth stands, and be that will Reach her, about muff, and about it goe: And what the bills fuddennefs refifts, winfo, Yet ftrive fo, that before age, deaths twilight, Thy Soul reft, for none can work in that night. To will implyes delay, therefore now do : Hard deeds, the bodie's pain; hard knowledge too The mind's indeavours reach; and mysteries Are like the Sun dazling, yet plain to all eyes. Keep the truth thou haft found; men do not fand In fo ill cafe, that God bath with bis hand Sign'd Kings blank-charters to kill whom they bate, Nor are they Vicars, but hangmen to Fate. Fool and wretch, wilt thou let thy foul be tyed To man's laws, by which he shall not be tryed"
who feeks the foundest First
Is not of No Religion, nor the worst.
T'adore, or fcorn an Image, or protest, May all be bad doubt wifely for the best 'Twere wrong to fleep, or headlong run aftray; It is not wandring, to inquire the way.
On a large Mountain, at the basis wide, Steep to the top, and craggy at the fide, Sits facred Truth enthron'd; and he, who means To reach the fummit, mounts with weary pains, Winds round and round, and every turn effays, Where fudden breaks refift the shorter ways.
Yet labour fo, that, e're faint age arrive, Thy fearching foul poffefs her Reft alive; To work by twilight were to work too late, And Age is twilight to the night of fate. To will alone, is but to mean delay :
To work at prefent is the use of day:
For man's employ much thought and deed remain, High Thoughts the Soul, hard deeds the body ftrain: And Myffries ask believing, which to View Like the fair Sun, are plain, but dazling too.
Be Truth, fo found, with facred heed poffeft, Not Kings have pow'r to tear it from thy breaft, By no blank Charters harm they where they hate, Nor are they Vicars, but the bands of Fate. Ah! fool and wretch, who let'ft thy foul be ty'd 125 To buman Laws! By thefe can Souls be try'd?
At the last day? Or will it then boot thee To fay a Philip or a Gregory,
A Harry or a Martin taught me this? Is not this excufe for meer contraries, Equally ftrong, cannot both fides say so?
That thou mayeft rightly obey power, her bounds know ; Those past, her nature, and name are chang'd ; to be Then bumble to her is Idolatry.
As ftreams are, Power is; those bleft flowers that dwell At the rough ftreams calm bead, thrive and do well But having left their roots, and themselves given To the ftreams tyrannous rage, alas, are driven Through Mills, Rocks, and Woods, and at last, almoft Confum'd in going, in the fea are loft:
So perifb Souls, which more chufe mens unjust Power, from God claim'd, then God himself to trust.
Or will it boot thee, at the latest day, When Judgment fits, and Juftice asks thy plea, That Philip that, or Greg'ry taught thee this, Or John or Martin? All may teach amiss : For, every contrary in each Extream This holds alike, and each may plead the fame.
Wou'dft thou to Pow'r a proper duty shew? "Tis thy first task the bounds of pow'r to know: The bounds once past, it holds the name no more, 135 Its nature alters, which it own'd before, Nor were fubmiffion humblenefs exprest, But all a low Idolatry at best.
Pow'r, from above fubordinately spread, Streams like a fountain from th'eternal head; There, calm and pure the living waters flow, But roar a Torrent or a Flood below; Each flow'r, ordain'd the Margins to adorn, Each native Beauty, from its roots is torn, And left on Deferts, Rocks and Sands, or toft All the long travel, and in Ocean loft:
So fares the Soul, which more that Pow'r reveres Man claims from God, that what in God inheres.
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