TO AN ANGRY ZEALOT

If of Religion I have made a sport, Then why not cite me to the Bishop's Court? Fair to the world let every page be set, And prove your charge from all I've said and writ:— What if this heart no narrow notions bind, Its pure good-will extends to all mankind: Suppose I ask no portion from your feast, Nor heaven-ward ride behind your parish priest, Because I wear not Shylock's Sunday face Must I, for that, be loaded with disgrace? The time has been,—the time, I fear, is now, When holy phrenzy would erect her brow, Round some poor wight with painted devils meet, And worse than Smithfield blaze through every street; But wholesome laws prevent such horrid scenes, No more afraid of deacons and of deans, In this new world our joyful Psalm we sing That Even a Bishop is a Harmless Thing!