To bringe fresh ointment in his eye?
The wond’rous art hath equall fate,
Unfixt, and yet inviolate.
The Puritans were sure deceav’d
Whoe thought those shaddowes mov’d and heav’d,
So held from stoninge Christ; the winde
And boysterous tempests were so kinde,
As on his image not to prey,
Whome both the winde and seas obey.
At Momus’ wish bee not amaz’d;