Sir,
You have oblig'd the patriarch, and 'tis known
He is your debtor now, though for his own.
What he wrote is a medley: we can see
Confusion trespass on his piety.
Misfortunes did not only strike at him,
They charged further, and oppress'd his pen;
For he wrote as his crosses came, and went
By no safe rule, but by his punishment.
His quill mov'd by the rod; his wits and he
Did know no method, but their misery.
You brought his Psalms now into tune. Nay all
His measures thus are more than musical;
Your method and his airs are justly sweet,
And—what's church music right—like anthems meet.
You did so much in this, that I believe
He gave the matter, you the form did give.
And yet I wish you were not understood,
For now 'tis a misfortune to be good!
Why then you'll say, all I would have, is this:
None must be good, because the time's amiss.
For since wise Nature did ordain the night,
I would not have the sun to give us light.
Whereas this doth not take the use away,
But urgeth the necessity of day.
Proceed to make your pious work as free,
Stop not your seasonable charity.
Good works despis'd or censur'd by bad times
Should be sent out to aggravate their crimes.
They should first share and then reject our store,
Abuse our good, to make their guilt the more.
'Tis war strikes at our sins, but it must be
A persecution wounds our piety.