On
being
—
—
tax'd
with
Symony
.
Hence
ye
prophane
Intruders
,
what
d'e
mean
,
To
pry
in
secret
Things
that
mayn't
be
seen
?
Your
Pastor
wonders
at
your
Insolence
,
'Tis
Treason
'gainst
your
Ecclesiastick
Prince
.
Pulpits
no
more
than
Crowns
must
be
prophan'd
,
And
if
possess'd
,
not
question'd
how
obtain'd
:
With-hold
your
Hands
,
rend
not
the
sacred
Veil
Of
his
Sanctorum
,
lest
his
Priesthood
fail
.
The
mighty
Mysteries
he
so
long
conceal'd
,
Will
be
by
Lay-mens
impious
means
reveal'd
:
Sure
,
you'll
not
dare
the
Secret
to
pronounce
,
No
more
than
Jews
their
Tetragrammatons
.
Yes
,
it
is
out
the
symonaick
Sound
,
With
Horror
doth
the
frighted
Priest
confound
.
Sure
,
the
last
Trumpet
can't
amaze
him
more
,
For
he
till
then
had
set
it
on
the
Score
;
In
vain
he'll
to
the
Horns
of
th'
Altar
fly
,
(
Alias
his
Patron
)
for
Security
:
They'll
drag
him
thence
,
that
is
no
sacred
Hold
,
Since
tip'd
by
him
with
symonaick
Gold
:
Had
they
been
guided
by
the
Patroness
,
She
kindly
had
contriv'd
the
Danger
less
:
No
avaritious
Zeal
her
Soul
did
move
,
For
she
was
nobly
guided
by
her
Love
:
Thought
Youth
and
Wit
sufficient
to
prefer
,
They
were
more
tempting
Things
than
Gold
with
her
.
But
now
the
Favourite
must
his
Purchase
quit
,
And
live
,
not
by
his
Learning
,
but
his
Wit
.