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Her eye-bows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray
She, half an angel in her own account,
Of temper as envenom'd as an asp,
Censorious, and her ev'ry word a wasp f
In faithful mem'ry she records the crimes
Or real, or fictitious, of the times;
Laughs at the reputations she has torn,
And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn.
Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride, Of malice fed while flesh is mortified: Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs, Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs; Your portion is with them.—Nay, never frown, But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.
Artist attend—your brushes and your paintProduce them—take a chair—now draw a saint. Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears Channel her cheeks—A Niobe appears! Is this a saint? Throw tints and all away— True Piety is cheerful as the day, Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan For others' woes, but smiles upon her own.
What purpose has the King of saints in view? Why falls the Gospel like a gracious dew? To call up plenty from the teeming eart , Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth?
Is it that Adam's offspring may be sav'd
Man's obligations infinite, of course
Say, on what hinge does his obedience move
pay; Reduce his wages, or get rid of her, Tom quits you, with—Your most obedient, Sir.
The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand. Watches your eye, anticipates command; Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail; And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale; Consults all day your int'rest and your ease, Richly rewarded if he can but please; And, proud to make his firm attachment known, To save your life would nobly risk his own.
Now which stands highest in your serious thought? Charles, without doubt, say you—and so he ought; One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds, Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.
Thus Heav'n approves as honest and sincere The work of gen'rous love and filial fear; But with averted eyes th' omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge.
Where dwell these matchless saints?—old Curio"
cries. Ev'n at your side, Sir, and before your eyes, The favour'd few—th' enthusiasts you despise. And pleas'd at heart because on holy ground Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found, Reproach a people with his single fall, And cast his filthy raiment at them all. Attend!—an apt similitude shall show Whence springs the conduct that offends you so. See where it smokes along the sounding plain, Blown all aslant, a driving dashing rain. Peal upon peal redoubling all around, Shakes it again and faster to the ground; Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. Ere yet it came the trav'ller urg'd his steed. And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed; Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case, He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace. Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude, Long hid by interposing hill or wood, Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd, By some kind hospitable heart possess'd, Offer him warmth, security, and rest;