no more,
  They saw God’s finger, and their fate deplore;
  Themselves they could not cure of the dishonest sore. 
  Thus one, thus pure, behold her largely spread,
  Like the fair ocean from her mother-bed;
  From east to west triumphantly she rides, 550
  All shores are water’d by her wealthy tides. 
  The Gospel-sound, diffused from pole to pole,
  Where winds can carry, and where waves can roll,
  The self-same doctrine of the sacred page
  Convey’d to every clime, in every age.

    Here let my sorrow give my satire place,
  To raise new blushes on my British race;
  Our sailing-ships like common sewers we use,
  And through our distant colonies diffuse
  The draught of dungeons, and the stench of stews, 560
  Whom, when their home-bred honesty is lost,
  We disembogue on some far Indian coast: 
  Thieves, panders, paillards,[115] sins of every sort;
  Those are the manufactures we export;
  And these the missioners our zeal has made: 
  For, with my country’s pardon be it said,
  Religion is the least of all our trade.

    Yet some improve their traffic more than we;
  For they on gain, their only god, rely,
  And set a public price on piety. 570
  Industrious of the needle and the chart,
  They run full sail to their Japonian mart;
  Prevention fear, and, prodigal of fame,
  Sell all of Christian,[116] to the very name;
  Nor leave enough of that, to hide their naked shame.

    Thus, of three marks, which in the Creed we view,
  Not one of all can be applied to you:  577
  Much less the fourth; in vain, alas! you seek
  The ambitious title of Apostolic: 
  God-like descent! ’tis well your blood can be
  Proved noble in the third or fourth degree: 
  For all of ancient that you had before,
  (I mean what is not borrow’d from our store)
  Was error fulminated o’er and o’er;
  Old heresies condemn’d in ages past,
  By care and time recover’d from the blast.

    ’Tis said with ease, but never can be proved,
  The Church her old foundations has removed,
  And built new doctrines on unstable sands: 
  Judge that, ye winds and rains:  you proved her, yet she stands. 590
  Those ancient doctrines charged on her for new,
  Show when and how, and from what hands they grew. 
  We claim no power, when heresies grow bold,
  To coin new faith, but still declare the old. 
  How else could that obscene disease be purged,
  When controverted texts are vainly urged? 
  To prove tradition new, there’s somewhat more
  Required, than saying, ’twas not used before. 
  Those monumental arms are never stirr’d,
  Till schism or heresy call down Goliah’s sword. 600