ODE XLVII.
[Be not too Zealous. I, ere this, have seene]
1
Be not too Zealous. I, ere this, have seene
A Pangve as hot, a votarie as keene,
Dye in its height of Flame;
Where everie word has beene
A Panegericke; all Addresses came
To Celebrate the Glorie of one name.
2
A Qvill, inspiréd with noe vulgar heat,
Made great in Numbers; in his ayme more great;
Supported in his choice;
And honoréd to meete
Acceptance, in a Patron; now in noyse
Of the litigious Rout, has lost his voice.
3
His Zeale is now noe more. His frequent vowes
Are all forgott. The honour of his browes,
His Laurel, witheréd;
His Qvill, perfidious,
Dabbles in common Cisternes; ruinéd
To his first vertue, calls backe what he sed.
4
And runs a-madding, with the vulgar Crew,
Retracting his old Principles, for new
And vndetermin'd things.
Poor man! I sett to veiwe
Thy common frailties, in his waverings.
Be calme! for Passion tires, on her owne wings,
5
And falls in Dirt; a Spectacle of Scorne
To other men. Be constant; but not borne
With a blind violence,
To stand noe more then turne,
To the Suggestions of imperfect Sence:
Who builds on Sands, has noe safe residence.
