To Mrs Duppa, Sent With the Picture of the Bishop of Chichester in a Small Peece of Glass

A Shape for Temple windows fit,
Y'have here in half a Quarrell writ,
As Temples are themselves in Spots,
And fairer Cities throng'd in Blots.
Though't fill the World as it doth run,
One drop of Light presents the Sun;
And Angles, that whole Nations guide,
Have but a point where they reside.
Such Wrongs redeem themselves, Thus we Confess
That all expressions of him must be less.

Though in those Spots the bounded Sense
Cannot deny Magnificence,
Yet reaching Minds in them may guess
Statues, and Altars, Pyles and Press;
And Fancy seeing more than Sight,
May powre that drop to flouds of Light,
And make that point of th' Compass foot
Round, Round into a Center shoot;
The piece may hit to you then, though't be small,
True Love doth find resemblances in all.

By Conquer'd Pencils 'tis confess'd
His Actions only draw him best,
Actions that, like these Colours, from
The trying fire more beamy come.
Yet may He still like this appear
At one Just stand: Let not the year
Imprint his Brow as it doth run,
Nor known when out, nor when begun;
How ere the Shade be, may the Substance long
Confirm't, if right, Confute it, if't be wrong.

I was about to say,
Ill Omens be away,
All Beasts that Age and Art unlucky stile
Keep from his sight a while;
Let no sad Bird from hollow trees dare preach,
Nor Men, that know less, teach;
And to my Self; do you not write,
The whole year breaks in this dares Light;
But I am bid blame Fancy, free the thing,
To solid Minds these Trifles no fears bring.

I was about to pray,
The years good in this day;
That fewer Laws were made, and more were kept,
The Church by Church-men swept;
No reall Innovations brought about,
To root the seeming out;
And Justice giv'n, not forc'd by those
Who know not what they do oppose,
But I am taught firme Minds have firmly stood,
And good-wils work for good unto the Good.

I was about to Chide
The Peoples raging Tide,
And bid them cease to cry the Bishops down
When ought did thwart the Town,
Wish 'em think Prelates Men, till we did know
How it with Saints would go;
But I conceiv'd that pious Minds
Drew deepest sleeps in Storms and Winds;
And could from Tempests gain as quiet Dreams
As Shepheards from the Murmur of small Streams.

And you my Lord are he
Who can all wishes free,
Whose round and solid Mind knows to Create
And fashion your own Fate;
Whose firmness can from Ills assure success
Where Others do but guess;
Whose Conscience holy Calms enjoys
'Mid'st the loud Tumults of State-Noise;
Thus gather'd in your self, you stand your own,
Nor rais'd, by giddy changes, nor cast down.

And though your Church do boast
Such (once thought pious) Cost,
That for each Month it shews a severall door,
You yet do open't More;
Though Windows equal Weeks, you giv't a day
More Bright, more clear than they;
And though the Pillers which stand there
Sum up the many hours of th' Year,
The Strength yet, and the Beauty of that frame
Lies not in them so much as in your Name.

A Name that shall in Story
Out-shine even Jewel 's glory,
A Name allowed by all as soon as heard,
At once both Lov'd and Fear'd,
A Name above all Praise, that will stand high
When Fame it self shall dye.
Whiles thus your Mind, Pen, Shape, and fit,
Times to your Vertues will submit,
And Manners unto Times, May Heaven bless thus
All Seasons unto you, and you to us.
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