Like flocks that follow on a beaten ground, Each abject nature in the way proceeds, That now to shearing, now to slaughter leads. “Should you offend, though meaning no offence, You have no safety in your innocence; 110 The statute broken then is placed in view, And men must pay for crimes they never knew. Who would by law regain his plunder’d store, Would pick up fallen merc’ry from the floor; If he pursue it, here and there it slides; He would collect it, but it more divides; This part and this he stops, but still in vain, It slips aside, and breaks in parts again; Till, after time and pains, and care and cost, He finds his labour and his object lost. 120 “But most it grieves me, (friends alone are round,) To see a man in priestly fetters bound; Guides to the soul, these friends of Heaven contrive, Long as man lives, to keep his fears alive; Soon as an infant breathes, their rites begin; Who knows not sinning, must be freed from sin; Who needs no bond must yet engage in vows; Who has no judgment, must a creed espouse: Advanced in life, our boys are bound by rules, } Are catechised in churches, cloisters, schools, } 130 And train’d in thraldom to be fit for tools; } The youth grown up, he now a partner needs, And lo! a priest, as soon as he succeeds. What man of sense can marriage-rites approve? What man of spirit can be bound to love? Forced to be kind! compell’d to be sincere! Do chains and fetters make companions dear? Pris’ners indeed we bind; but though the bond May keep them safe, it does not make them fond: The ring, the vow, the witness, licence, prayers, 140 All parties known! made public all affairs! Such forms men suffer, and from these they date A deed of love begun with all they hate. Absurd, that none the beaten road should shun, But love to do what other dupes have done! “Well, now your priest has made you one of twain, Look you for rest? Alas! you look in vain. If sick, he comes; you cannot die in peace, Till he attends to witness your release; To vex your soul, and urge you to confess 150 The sins you feel, remember, or can guess; Nay, when departed, to your grave he goes, But there indeed he hurts not your repose. “Such are our burthens; part we must sustain, But need not link new grievance to the chain. Yet men like idiots will their frames surround With these vile shackles, nor confess they’re bound; In all that most confines them they confide, Their slavery boast, and make their bonds their pride; E’en as the pressure galls them, they declare, 160 (Good souls!) how happy and how free they are! As madmen, pointing round their wretched cells, Cry, ‘Lo! the palace where our honour dwells.’