Thy rhymes cry Pax to all, nor dost thou scatter
60Abuses on their shrines, their saints, or water,
And if some civil satire lash thee back,
Because he reads my title, sees my black,
Answer i' th' poet's phrase, and tell them more,
My tale of years had scarce outsummed a score
When my young fancy these light measures meant
The press: but Fate since cancell'd that intent.
Nor claim'd the Church as then a greater part
In me than others, bate my title Art—