Classic Poem

You that prophane our windows with a tongue
Set like some clock on purpose to go wrong;
Who when you were at Service sigh'd, because
You heard the Organs musick not the Dawes:
Pittying our solemn state, shaking the head
To see no ruines from the floor to the lead:
To whose pure nose our Cedar gave offence,
Crying it smelt of Papists frankincense:
Who, walking on our Marbles, scoffing said
" Whose bodies are under these Tombstones laid?"
Counting our Tapers works of darknesse; and
Choosing to see Priests in blue-aprons stand
Rather than in rich Copes which shew the art
Of Sisera's prey Imbrodred in each part:
Then when you saw the Altars Bason said
" Why's not the Ewer on the Cupboards head?"
Thinking our very Bibles too prophane,
Cause you ne'er bought such Covers in Ducklane .
Loathing all decency, as if you'd have
Altars as foule and homely as a Grave.
Had you one spark of reason, you would finde
Your selves like Idols to have eyes yet blind.
'Tis onely some base niggard Heresie
To think Religion loves deformity.
Glory did never yet make God the lesse,
Neither can beauty defile holinesse.
Whats more magnificent than Heaven? yet where
Is there more love and piety than there?
My heart doth wish (wer't possible) to see
Pauls built with pretious stones and porphery:
To have our Halls and Galleries outshine
Altars in beauty, is to deck our swine
With Orient Pearl, whilst the deserving Quire
Of God and Angels wallow in the mire:
Our decent Copes onely distinction keep
That you may know the Shepheard from the sheep,
As gaudy letters in the Rubrick shew
How you may holi-dayes from lay-dayes know:
Remember Aarons Robes and you will say
Ladies at Masques are not so rich as they.
Then are th' Priests words like thunderclaps when he
Is lightning like rayed round with Majesty.
May every Temple shine like those of Nile ,
And still be free from Rat or Crocodile.
But you will urge both Priest and Church should be
The solemne patternes of humility.
Do not some boast of rags? Cynicks deride
The pomp of Kings but with a greater pride.
Meeknesse consists not in the cloaths but heart,
Nature may be vainglorious well as art;
We may as lowly before God appear
Drest with a glorious pearl as with a tear;
In his high presence where the Stars and Sun
Do but Eclipse there's no ambition.
Colours are here mix'd so, that Rainbows be
(Compared) but clouds without variety.
Art here is Natures envy: this is he,
Not Paracelsus , that by Chymistry
Can make a man from ashes, if not dust,
Producing off-springs of his mind not lust.