Then all may lament my condition so hard,
Who thrash in the pulpit without a reward.
Then, pray, condescend such disorders to end,
And to the ripe vineyard the labourers send
To build up the seats that the beauties may see
The face of no bawling pretender but me.”
The Princess by rude importunity press’d,
Though she laughed at his reasons, allowed his request;
And now Britain’s nymphs in a Protestant reign
Are box’d up at prayers, like the virgins of Spain.