Compassion to the coldness of my breast;
And pardon to the winter in my strain.
O ye cold-hearted, frozen, formalists!
On such a theme, ’tis impious to be calm;
Passion is reason, transport temper, here. 640
Shall Heaven, which gave us ardour, and has shown
Her own for man so strongly, not disdain
What smooth emollients in theology,
Recumbent virtue’s downy doctors preach,
That prose of piety, a lukewarm praise?