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'Tis not discov'ring of each others shame,
(And of those dunghils, out of which they came)
By suff'ring scurrilous base Pamphleteers
To fill the streets, with slanders, lies, and jeers,
Till there is hardly left us time and room
Of useful Truths, informed to become.
Nor preaching Swordmen, nor the fighting Priests,
Are they, who must support our Interests.
Nor they, who make our publike plagues the more
By shutting private mercies out of door:
For doubtless they, who, find not time, to hear
A man oppressed, once in twice four year,

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Though urg'd with frequent importunities,
Will make GOD's ears as deaf unto their cries.
'Tis not our Fellowship with pious friends,
Made instrumental for meer carnal ends:
'Tis not our eagerness to miss-apply
The grace of GOD, and cloud it with a Lie,
Which will endear, and make us acceptable
To him, who to deliver us is able.
Nor is't our formal Off'rings, or our zeal
To GOD, and safety of this Commonweal
Pretended, by our weeding from his Corn
Those, whom he doth command to be forborn
Till harvest-time, (lest, as we dayly do,
Among the Tares, we pluck up good wheat, too)
That, will be our protection from the smart
And sting of Conscience, when GOD tries the heart;
Nor from those outward plagues, which many run
To meet, in hope, by that course, them to shun.