To them it seem’d that, take the tenth away,
Yet priests must eat, and you must feed or pay: 
Would they indeed, who hold such pay in scorn,
Put on the muzzle when they tread the corn? 
Would they all, gratis, watch and tend the fold,
Nor take one fleece to keep them from the cold? 
   Men are not equal, and ’tis meet and right
That robes and titles our respect excite;
Order requires it; ’tis by vulgar pride
That such regard is censured and denied;
Or by that false enthusiastic zeal,
That thinks the Spirit will the priest reveal,
And show to all men, by their powerful speech,
Who are appointed and inspired to teach: 
Alas! could we the dangerous rule believe,
Whom for their teacher should the crowd receive? 
Since all the varying kinds demand respect,
All press you on to join their chosen sect,
Although but in this single point agreed,
“Desert your churches and adopt our creed.” 
   We know full well how much our forms offend
The burthen’d Papist and the simple Friend: 
Him, who new robes for every service takes,
And who in drab and beaver sighs and shakes;
He on the priest, whom hood and band adorn,
Looks with the sleepy eye of silent scorn;
But him I would not for my friend and guide,
Who views such things with spleen, or wears with pride. 
   See next our several Sects,—­but first behold
The Church of Rome, who here is poor and old: 
Use not triumphant raillery, or, at least,
Let not thy mother be a whore and beast;
Great was her pride indeed in ancient times,
Yet shall we think of nothing but her crimes? 
Exalted high above all earthly things,
She placed her foot upon the neck of kings;
But some have deeply since avenged the crown,
And thrown her glory and her honours down;
Nor neck nor ear can she of kings command,
Nor place a foot upon her own fair land. 
   Among her sons, with us a quiet few,
Obscure themselves, her ancient state review,
And fond and melancholy glances cast
On power insulted, and on triumph past: 
They look, they can but look, with many a sigh,
On sacred buildings doom’d in dust to lie;
“On seats,” they tell, “where priests mid tapers dim
Breathed the warm prayer, or tuned the midnight hymn;
Where trembling penitents their guilt confessed,
Where want had succour, and contrition rest;
There weary men from trouble found relief,
There men in sorrow found repose from grief. 
To scenes like these the fainting soul retired;
Revenge and anger in these cells expired;
By Pity soothed, Remorse lost half her fears,
And soften’d Pride dropp’d penitential tears. 
   “Then convent walls and nunnery spires arose,
In pleasant spots which monk or abbot chose;
When counts and barons saints devoted fed,
And making cheap exchange, had pray’r for bread. 
   “Now all is lost, the earth where abbeys stood