Chapter 7 No.7

But zeal is weak and ignorant, though wondrous proud,

Though very turbulent and very loud;

The crazy composition shows,

Like that fantastic medley in the idol's toes,

Made up of iron mixt with clay,

This crumbles into dust,

That moulders into rust,

Or melts by the first shower away.

Nothing is fix'd that mortals see or know,

Unless, perhaps, some stars above be so;

And those, alas, do show,

Like all transcendent excellence below;

In both, false mediums cheat our sight,

And far exalted objects lessen by their height:

Thus primitive Sancroft moves too high

To be observed by vulgar eye,

And rolls the silent year

On his own secret regular sphere,

And sheds, though all unseen, his sacred influence here.