What all but fools, by common sense, may know:
If true succession from our isle should fail,
And crowds profane, with impious arms, prevail,
}
{ Not thou, nor those thy factious arts engage,
{ Shall reap that harvest of rebellious rage,
{ With which thou flatterest thy decrepid age.[501]
The swelling poison of the several sects,
Which, wanting vent, the nation's health infects,
Shall burst its bag, and, fighting out their way,