No doubt, replied the Hind, as sure as all The writings of Saint Peter and Saint Paul: On that decision let it stand or fall. 220 Now for my converts, who, you say, unfed, Have follow'd me for miracles of bread; Judge not by hearsay, but observe at least, If since their change their loaves have been increased. The Lion buys no converts; if he did, Beasts would be sold as fast as he could bid. Tax those of interest who conform for gain, Or stay the market of another reign: Your broad-way sons would never be too nice To close with Calvin, if he paid their price; 230 But, raised three steeples higher, would change their note, And quit the cassock for the canting-coat. Now, if you damn this censure, as too bold, Judge by yourselves, and think not others sold. Meantime my sons, accused by fame's report, Pay small attendance at the Lion's court, Nor rise with early crowds, nor flatter late; For silently they beg who daily wait. Preferment is bestow'd, that comes unsought; Attendance is a bribe, and then 'tis bought. 240 How they should speed, their fortune is untried; For not to ask, is not to be denied. For what they have, their God and king they bless, And hope they should not murmur, had they less. But if reduced, subsistence to implore, In common prudence they should pass your door. Unpitied Hudibras,[122] your champion friend, Has shown how far your charities extend. This lasting verse shall on his tomb be read, "He shamed you living, and upbraids you dead." 250 With odious atheist names[123] you load your foes; Your liberal clergy why did I expose? It never fails in charities like those. In climes where true religion is profess'd, That imputation were no laughing jest. But imprimatur,[124] with a chaplain's name, Is here sufficient licence to defame. What wonder is't that black detraction thrives? The homicide of names is less than lives; And yet the perjured murderer survives. 260 This said, she paused a little, and suppress'd The boiling indignation of her breast. She knew the virtue of her blade, nor would Pollute her satire with ignoble blood: Her panting foe she saw before her eye, And back she drew the shining weapon dry. So when the generous Lion has in sight His equal match, he rouses for the fight; But when his foe lies prostrate on the plain, He sheaths his paws, uncurls his angry mane, 270 And, pleased with bloodless honours of the day, Walks over and disdains the inglorious prey. So James, if great with less we may compare, Arrests his rolling thunderbolts in air! And grants ungrateful friends a lengthen'd space, To implore the remnants of long-suffering grace.