The church unholy, where Jehovah's name Is now adored, because he surely knows Sometimes[393] it was defiled with Popish shows; The bells profane, and not to be endured, Because to Popish rites they were inured. Pure madness! Peace, cease to be insolent, And be not outward sober, inly impudent. 70 Fie, inconsiderate! it grieveth me An academic should so senseless be. Fond censurer! why should those mirrors seem So vile to thee, which better judgments deem Exquisite then, and in our polish'd times May run for senseful tolerable lines? What, not _mediocria firma_ from thy spite? But must thy envious hungry fangs needs light On _Magistrates' Mirror_?[394] Must thou needs detract And strive to work his ancient honour's wrack? 80 What, shall not Rosamond[395] or Gaveston Ope their sweet lips without detraction? But must our modern critic's envious eye Seem thus to quote some gross deformity, Where art, not error, shineth in their style, But error, and no art, doth thee beguile? For tell me, critic, is not fiction The soul of poesy's invention? Is't not the form, the spirit, and the essence, The life, and the essential difference, 90 Which _omni_, _semper_, _soli_, doth agree To heavenly descended poesy? Thy wit God comfort, mad chirurgion. What, make so dangerous an incision?-- At first dash whip away the instrument Of poet's procreation! Fie, ignorant! When as the soul and vital blood doth rest, And hath in fiction only interest, What, Satire, suck the soul from poesy, And leave him spriteless! O impiety! 100 Would ever any erudite pedant[396] Seem in his artless lines so insolent? But thus it is when petty Priscians Will needs step up to be censorians. When once they can in true scann'd verses frame A brave encomium of good Virtue's name; Why, thus it is, when mimic apes will strive With iron wedge the trunks of oaks to rive. But see, his spirit of detraction Must nibble at a glorious action. 110 _Euge!_ some gallant spirit, some resolvèd blood, Will hazard all to work his country's good, And to enrich his soul and raise his name, Will boldly sail unto the rich Guiane: What then? Must straight some shameless satirist,[397] With odious and opprobrious terms insist To blast so high resolv'd intention With a malignant vile detraction? So have I seen a cur dog in the street Piss 'gainst the fairest posts he still could meet; 120 So have I seen the March wind strive to fade The fairest hue that art or nature made: So envy still doth bark at clearest shine, And strives to stain heroic acts divine. Well, I have cast thy water, and I see Th' art fall'n to wit's extremest poverty, Sure in consumption of the spritely part. Go, use some cordial for to cheer thy heart,