Could seldom clearly utter his design; But, though by nature and indulgence weak, Yet, half-converted, he resolved to speak; 360 And, speaking, own’d, “that in his mind the youth Had gifts and learning, and that truth was truth. The ’squire he honour’d, and, for his poor part, He hated nothing like a hollow heart; But ’twas a maxim he had often tried, That right was right, and there he would abide; He honour’d learning, and he would confess The preacher had his talents--more or less: Why not agree? he thought the young divine Had no such strictness--they might drink and dine, 370 For them sufficient--but he said before, That truth was truth, and he would drink no more.” This heard the ’squire with mix’d contempt and pain; He fear’d the priest this recreant sot would gain. The favourite nymph, though not a convert made, Conceived the man she scorn’d her cause would aid; And when the spirits of her lord were low, The lass presumed the wicked cause to show: “It was the wretched life his Honour led, And would draw vengeance on his guilty head; 380 Their loves (Heav’n knew how dreadfully distress’d The thought had made her!) were as yet unbless’d: And till the church had sanction’d”--here she saw The wrath that forced her trembling to withdraw. Add to these outward ills some inward light, That show’d him all was not correct and right: Though now he less indulged--and to the poor, From day to day, sent alms from door to door; Though he some ease from easy virtues found, Yet conscience told him he could not compound; 390 But must himself the darling sin deny, } Change the whole heart--but here a heavy sigh } Proclaim’d, “How vast the toil! and ah! how weak am I!” } James too has trouble--he divided sees A parish, once harmonious and at ease: With him united are the simply meek, The warm, the sad, the nervous, and the weak; The rest his uncle’s, save the few beside, Who own no doctrine, and obey no guide; With stragglers of each adverse camp, who lend 400 Their aid to both, but each in turn offend. Though zealous still, yet he begins to feel The heat too fierce, that glows in vulgar zeal; With pain he hears his simple friends relate Their week’s experience, and their woful state: With small temptation struggling every hour, And bravely battling with the tempting power; His native sense is hurt by strange complaints Of inward motions in these warring saints: Who never cast on sinful bait a look 410 But they perceive the devil at the hook. Grieved, yet compell’d to smile, he finds it hard Against the blunders of conceit to guard; He sighs to hear the jests his converts cause, He cannot give their erring zeal applause;