She slumber’d careless in a royal bed;
To make, they add, the Church’s glory shine,
Should Diocletian reign, not Constantine.
“In pomp,” they cry, “is “England’s Church array’d,
Her cool Reformers wrought like men afraid;
We would have pull’d her gorgeous temples down,
And spurn’d her mitre, and defiled her gown:
We would have trodden low both bench and stall,
Nor left a tithe remaining, great or small.”
Let us be serious - Should such trials come.