 | Divine Fancies |  |
13. On the Hypocrite.
Hee's like a Bullrush; seems so smooth, that notThe eye of Cato can discry a knot:
Pill out the Barke, and strip his smoother skin,
And thou shalt find him spungie, all within:
His browes are alwayes ponderous as Lead,
He ever droopes, and hangs his velvet head:
He washes often; but, if thou enquire
Into his depth, his rootes are fixt in myre.
| Divine Fancies | |