That this is of your rites The custom and practice, it has been handed down to memory: This the discipline of the institution, That priests pour libations from golden cups. In silver goblets they say That the sacred blood smokes; And that in golden candlestick, at the nightly sacrifices, There stand fixed waxen candles. Then is it the chief care of the brethren, As many-tongued report does testify, To offer from the sale of estates, Thousands of pence. Ancestral property made over To dishonest auctions, The disinherited successor groans, Needy child of holy parents. These treasures are concealed in secret, In corners of the churches; And it is believed the height of piety To strip your sweet children. Bring out your treasures, Which by evil arts of persuasion You have heaped up and hold, Which you shut up in darkling cave. Public utility demands this, The privy purse demands it, the treasury demands it, That the soldiers may be paid for their services, And the commander may benefit thereby. This is your dogma, then: Give every man his own. Now Caesar recognises his own Image, stamped on the coin. What you know to be Caesar's, to Caesar Give; surely what I ask is just. If I am not mistaken, your Deity Coins no money, Nor when he came did he bring Golden Jacobuses[3] with him; But he gave his precepts in words, Empty in point of pocket. Fulfil the promise of the words Which you sell the round world over. Give up your hard cash willingly, Be rich in words. (_Prudentius, Hymn on St. Lawrence_).