Now that the fate is public, we may call
It Britain's vespers, England's funeral.
Who hath a pencil to express the Saint
But he hath eyes too, washing off the paint?
There is no learning but what tears surround,
Like to Seth's pillars in the Deluge drowned.
There is no Church; Religion is grown
20So much of late that she 's increased to none,
Like an hydropic body, full of rheums,
First swells into a bubble, then consumes.