Poetry > Course of time

BOOK EIGHTH.
247
That common sinners durst not meddle with.
At sacred feast he sat among the saints,
And with his guilty hands touched holiest things;
And none of sin lamented more, or sighed
More deeply, or with graver countenance,
Or longer prayer, wept o’er the dying man,
Whose infant children, at the moment, he
Planned how to rob. In sermon style he bought,
And sold, and lied; and salutations made
In Scripture terms. He prayed by quantity,
And with his repetitions long and loud,
All knees were weary. With one hand he put
A penny in the urn of poverty,
And with the other took a shilling out.
On charitable lists—those trumps which told
The public ear who had in secret done
The poor a benefit, and half the alms
They told of, took themselves to keep them sounding—
He blazed his name, more pleased to have it there
Than in the Book of Life. See’st thou the man ?
A serpent with an angel’s voice ! a grave
With flowers bestrewed ! and yet few were deceived.
His virtues being overdone, his face
Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities
Too pompously attended, and his speech
Larded too frequently and out of time
With serious phraseology—were rents
That in his garments opened in spite of him,
Through which the well-accustomed eye could see
The rottenness of his heart. None deeper blushed,