_Dor._ Two-thirds of all he said: there he began To shew the fulness of his heart; there ended. Some short excursions of a broken vow He made indeed, but flat insipid stuff; But, when he made his loss the theme, he flourished, Relieved his fainting rhetoric with new figures, And thundered at oppressing tyranny. _Muf._ Why not, when sacrilegious power would seize My property? 'tis an affront to heaven, Whose person, though unworthy, I sustain. _Dor._ You've made such strong alliances above, That 'twere profaneness in us laity To offer earthly aid. I tell thee, Mufti, if the world were wise, They would not wag one finger in your quarrels. Your heaven you promise, but our earth you covet; The Phaetons of mankind, who fire that world, Which you were sent by preaching but to warm. _Bend._ This goes beyond the mark. _Muf._ No, let him rail; His prophet works within him; He's a rare convert. _Dor._ Now his zeal yearns To see me burned; he damns me from his church, Because I would restrain him to his duty.-- Is not the care of souls a load sufficient? Are not your holy stipends paid for this? Were you not bred apart from worldly noise, To study souls, their cures and their diseases? If this be so, we ask you but our own: Give us your whole employment, all your care. The province of the soul is large enough To fill up every cranny of your time, And leave you much to answer, if one wretch Be damned by your neglect. _Bend._ [_To the_ MUFTI.] He speaks but reason. _Dor._ Why, then, these foreign thoughts of state-employments, Abhorrent to your function and your breedings? Poor droning truants of unpractised cells, Bred in the fellowship of bearded boys, What wonder is it if you know not men? Yet there you live demure, with down-cast eyes, And humble as your discipline requires; But, when let loose from thence to live at large, Your little tincture of devotion dies: Then luxury succeeds, and, set agog With a new scene of yet untasted joys, You fall with greedy hunger to the feast. Of all your college virtues, nothing now But your original ignorance remains; Bloated with pride, ambition, avarice, You swell to counsel kings, and govern kingdoms. _Muf._ He prates as if kings had not consciences, And none required directors but the crowd. _Dor._ As private men they want you, not as kings; Nor would you care to inspect their public conscience, But that it draws dependencies of power And earthly interest, which you long to sway; Content you with monopolizing heaven, And let this little hanging ball alone: For, give you but a foot of conscience there, And you, like Archimedes, toss the globe. We know your thoughts of us that laymen are, Lag souls, and rubbish of remaining clay, Which heaven, grown weary of more perfect work, Set upright with a little puff of breath, And bid us pass for men. _Muf._ I will not answer, Base foul-mouthed renegade; but I'll pray for thee, To shew my charity. [_Exit_ MUFTI.