And yet the world, whose eyes are on our mighty Prince,
Thinks Heav'n has cancell'd all our sins,
And that his subjects share his happy influence;
Follow the model close, for so I'm sure they should,
But wicked kings draw more examples than the good;
And divine Sancroft, weary with the weight
Of a declining church, by faction her worst foe oppress'd,
Finding the mitre almost grown
A load as heavy as the crown,
Wisely retreated to his heavenly rest.
X.
Ah, may no unkind earthquake of the state,
Nor hurricano from the crown,
Disturb the present mitre, as that fearful storm of late,
Which in its dusky march along the plain,
Swept up whole churches as it list,
Wrapp'd in a whirlwind and a mist;
Like that prophetick tempest in the virgin reign,
And swallow'd them at last, or flung them down.
Such were the storms good Sancroft long has born;
The mitre, which his sacred head has worn,
Was, like his Master's Crown, inwreath'd with thorn.
Death's sting is swallow'd up in victory at last,
The bitter cup is from him past:
Fortune in both extremes,
Though blasts from contrariety of winds,
Yet to firm heavenly minds,
Is but one thing under two different names;
