Your sons of latitude that court your grace, 160 Though most resembling you in form and face. Are far the worst of your pretended race. And, but I blush your honesty to blot, Pray God you prove them lawfully begot: For in some Popish libels I have read, The Wolf has been too busy in your bed; At least her hinder parts, the belly-piece, The paunch, and all that Scorpio claims, are his. Their malice too a sore suspicion brings; For though they dare not bark, they snarl at kings: 170 Nor blame them for intruding in your line; Fat bishoprics are still of right divine. Think you your new French proselytes[121] are come To starve abroad, because they starved at home? Your benefices twinkled from afar; They found the new Messiah by the star: Those Swisses fight on any side for pay, And 'tis the living that conforms, not they. Mark with what management their tribes divide, Some stick to you, and some to the other side, 180 That many churches may for many mouths provide. More vacant pulpits would more converts make; All would have latitude enough to take: The rest unbeneficed your sects maintain; For ordinations without cures are vain, And chamber practice is a silent gain. Your sons of breadth at home are much like these; Their soft and yielding metals run with ease: They melt, and take the figure of the mould; But harden and preserve it best in gold. 190 Your Delphic sword, the Panther then replied, Is double-edged, and cuts on either side. Some sons of mine, who bear upon their shield Three steeples argent in a sable field, Have sharply tax'd your converts, who unfed Have follow'd you for miracles of bread; Such who themselves of no religion are, Allured with gain, for any will declare. Bare lies with bold assertions they can face; But dint of argument is out of place. 200 The grim logician puts them in a fright; 'Tis easier far to flourish than to fight. Thus our eighth Henry's marriage they defame; They say the schism of beds began the game, Divorcing from the Church to wed the dame: Though largely proved, and by himself profess'd, That conscience, conscience would not let him rest: I mean, not till possess'd of her he loved, And old, uncharming Catherine was removed. For sundry years before he did complain, 210 And told his ghostly confessor his pain. With the same impudence without a ground, They say, that look the Reformation round, No Treatise of Humility is found. But if none were, the gospel does not want; Our Saviour preach'd it, and I hope you grant, The Sermon on the Mount was Protestant.