Classic Poem

My Lord,
Though the distemp red Many cry they see
The Missall in our Liturgie:
The Almanack that is before it set
Goes true, and is not Popish yet.
Whiles therefore none indites
This feast of Roman Rites,
Whiles as yet New-year in Red Paint,
Is not cry'd out on for a Saint;
Presents will be no Offrings, and I may
Season my duty safely with the day.

Now an Impartiall Court, deaf to Pretence,
Sits like the Kingdoms Conscience,
While Actions now are touch'd, and Men are try'd,
Whether they can the day abide,
Though they should go about
To track Offences out,
In Deeds, in Thoughts, Without, Within,
As Casuists, when they search out Sin;
When Others shake, how safe do you appear,
And a Just Patriot know no private fear?

This you have gain'd from an unbiass'd Breast,
Discharg'd of all Self Interest;
From Square, and solid Actions without flaw,
That will in time themselves grow Law.
Actions that shew you mean
Nought to the Common Scene,
That you'l ne'r lengthen power by Lust,
But shape and size it by your Trust,
That you do make the Church the Main, no Bye,
And chiefly mean what Others but Apply.

Were very Light thus Regular as you,
And to it's destin'd Motions true,
Did some not shine too short, but reach about,
And throw their wholsome Lustre out,
What danger then or fear,
Would seize this Sacred Sphere?
Who would impute that Thriving Art
That turns a Charge into a Mart?
We would enjoy, like you, a State Confess'd
Happy by all, still Blessing, and still Bless'd.

But whether false suspicion, or true Crimes
Provoke the Sowreness of the Times;
Whether't be Pride, or Glory call'd Pride, all
Expect at least some sudden fall;
And seeing as Vices, so
Their Cures may too far go,
And Want of Moderation be
Both in the Ill, and Remedy,
So that perhaps to bar th' Abuse of Wine,
Their Zeal may lead them to cut up the Vine.

Pray'rs are Our Arms; and the time affords
On a Good Day be said Good Words;
Could I shape Things to Votes, I'd wish a Calm,
Soveraign and soft, as Flouds of Balm;
But as it is, I square
The Vote to the Affair,
And wish this Storm may shake the Vine,
Only to make it faster twine;
That hence the Early Type may be made Good,
And our Ark too, rise higher with the Floud.

As then Sick Manners call forth wholsome Laws,
The Good effect of a bad Cause,
So all I wish must settle in this Sum,
That more Strength from Laxations come.
But how can this appear
To humor the New year?
When proper Wishes, fitly meant,
Should breath his Good to whom they're sent.
Y'have a large Mind (my Lord) and that assures,
To wish the Publike Good, is to wish Yours.