For Prelates ne'r in Sanedrims debate,
They argue in the Church, but not i'th' State;
And when their Thoughts aslant towards Heav'n they turn,
They weigh each Grain of Incense that they burn,
But t'Heavens Vice-gerents, Soul, Sense, Reason, all,
Or right or wrong, like Hecatombs must fall.
And when State-business calls their Thoughts below,
Then like their own Church-Organ-Pipes they go.
Not _Davids_ Lyre could more his Touch obey:
For as their Princes breathe and strike, they play.
'Gainst Royal Will they never can dispute, }
But by a strange _Tarantula_ strook mute, }
Dance to no other Tune but _Absolute_. }
All Acts of Supreme Power they still admire:
'Tis Sacred, though to set the World on Fire,
Though Church-Infallibility they explode,
As making Humane knowledge equal God;
Infallible in a new name goes down,
Not in the Mitre lodged, but in the Crown.
'Tis true, blest _Deborahs_ Laws they could forget:
(But want of Memory commends their Wit.)
Where 'twas enacted Treason, not to own
Hers and her Sanedrins right to place the Crown.
But her weak Heads oth' Church, mistaken fools,
Wanted the Light of their sublimer Schools:
For Divine Right could no such Forces bring. }
But Wisdom now expands her wider Wing, }
And Streams are ever deeper than the Spring. }
Besides, they've sense of Honour; and who knows
How far the Gratitude of Priest-craft goes?