Classic Poem

Lord, I to thee direct my cries,
My Subjects forward Oaths remit:
Quicken their sense of those firm ties,
By law upon their Conscience knit,
With which no pious, no pretence
Of Reformation can dispence.

Religion owns no injury:
No Sacreledge by thee allow'd;
Though mask'd with hate t'Idolatry:
Their zeal-disguised fraud uncloud.
Things Holy tis a snare to take,
And after Vowes enquiry make.

Assist thy servant to withstand
Rapines involv'd in Perjury:
Nor ever let me wear the brand
Of having rob'd thy Church and thee.
Since what to us thy bounty gives,
From us thy Clemency receives.

Though my Revenues are decreast,
My debts enlarg'd, my Treasures drain'd,
Let not my wants, by such unblest
Repaires, consent to be sustain'd:
Lest from thy Altar fall a Cole,
And fire at once my Throne and Soul.

Let no vain publike Indigence,
The Church from her endowments sever,
The 'State, by peacefull Providence,
May theirs regain, the Church can never:
Whilst Charity is thought a vice,
Religion plac'd in Avarice.

Let them who in thy Temple serve,
What pious Donors gave, enjoy:
And (those incitements to deserve)
Their wealth, to aid the low, imploy:
The Priests in Righteousness array'd,
The hunger of the Poor allai'd.

No hallow'd things let Swine divide,
Nor Doggs devour the Churches bread:
But Grin and Snarle unsatisfi'd.
Whilst all that have already fed
Death in those sacred morsells finde,
And leave a rotten name behinde.

Lord, break the Treasons of my Foes,
In Sacriledge Confederate:
Disjoin the Hearts and Tongues of those
Who bandy 'gainst the Church and State.
Let all the world their folly see,
And in my clearness succour me.