Oaths were not purpos’d more than law,
To keep the good and just in awe,
But to confine the bad and sinful,
Like moral cattle, in a pinfold. 200
A Saint’s of th’ Heav’nly Realm a Peer;
And as no Peer is bound to swear,
But on the Gospel of his Honour,
Of which he may dispose as owner,
It follows, though the thing be forgery, 205
And false th’ affirm, it is no perjury,
But a mere ceremony, and a breach
Of nothing, but a form of speech;
And goes for no more when ’tis took,
Than mere saluting of the book. 210
Suppose the Scriptures are of force,
They’re but commissions of course,
And Saints have freedom to digress,
And vary from ’em, as they please;
Or mis-interpret them, by private 215
Instructions, to all aims they drive at. 
Then why should we ourselves abridge
And curtail our own privilege? 
Quakers (that, like to lanthorns, bear
Their light within ’em) will not swear 220
Their gospel is an accidence,
By which they construe conscience,
And hold no sin so deeply red,
As that of breaking Priscian’s head;
(The head and founder of their order,) 225
That stirring Hat’s held worse than murder. 
These thinking th’ are oblig’d to troth
In swearing, will not take an oath
Like mules, who, if th’ have not their will
To keep their own pace, stand stock-still:  230
But they are weak, and little know
What free-born consciences may do. 
’Tis the temptation of the Devil
That makes all human actions evil
For Saints may do the same things by 235
The Spirit, in sincerity,
Which other men are tempted to,
And at the Devil’s instance do
And yet the actions be contrary,
Just as the Saints and Wicked vary. 240
For as on land there is no beast,
But in some fish at sea’s exprest,
So in the Wicked there’s no Vice,
Of which the Saints have not a spice;
And yet that thing that’s pious in 245
The one, in th’ other is a sin. 
Is’t not ridiculous, and nonsense,
A Saint should be a slave to conscience,
That ought to be above such fancies,
As far as above ordinances? 250
She’s of the wicked, as I guess,
B’ her looks, her language, and her dress: 
And though, like constables, we search,
For false wares, one another’s Church,
Yet all of us hold this for true, 255
No Faith is to the wicked due;
For truth is precious and divine;
Too rich a pearl for carnal swine,