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We must Think what we Say, and Mean what we Profess.

quote by Mary Astell
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Have You Changed?

Jesus Christ came to die upon a cross to Glorify His Father's name,
His strong desire to follow His Father's will truly never changed.

Once we are covered by His Blood, we should never be the same,
But many who profess to be Christians today never truly changed.

Unlike Christ, The Spotless Lamb, who always remained the same.
Sinners like you and I who come to Christ must experience a change.

Those of us, who choose not to change, but want to remain the same,
Do not Glorify The Father in Heaven, but fill the church with shame.

But if you're truly a Christian in whom The Holy Spirit does reside,
He will make a definite change one can see from your heart inside.

The Holy Sprit is the person in The Trinity, in whom Christ relied,
To make a change in Believers that can not and will not be denied.

So if you believe you can profess His Name and from the world hide,
Your profession is vein and empty and by Christ you will be denied.

There is no denying the fact that once you believe you shall change,
For even Peter, who denied The Lord, later became filled with shame.

But, after Peter was filled with The Spirit, he never was the same,
And when demanded to stop, he continued preaching about his change.

One reason many unbelievers today refuse to believe and also change,
May be that many who profess to believe continue to remain the same.

(Copyright © 11/2002)

poem by Bob Gotti
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Tale IX

EDWARD SHORE.

Genius! thou gift of Heav'n! thou light divine!
Amid what dangers art thou doom'd to shine!
Oft will the body's weakness check thy force,
Oft damp thy vigour, and impede thy course;
And trembling nerves compel thee to restrain
Thy nobler efforts, to contend with pain;
Or want (sad guest!) will in thy presence come,
And breathe around her melancholy gloom:
To life's low cares will thy proud thought confine,
And make her sufferings, her impatience, thine.
Evil and strong, seducing passions prey
On soaring minds, and win them from their way,
Who then to Vice the subject spirits give,
And in the service of the conqu'ror live;
Like captive Samson making sport for all,
Who fear'd their strength, and glory in their fall.
Genius, with virtue, still may lack the aid
Implored by humble minds, and hearts afraid;
May leave to timid souls the shield and sword
Of the tried Faith, and the resistless Word;
Amid a world of dangers venturing forth,
Frail, but yet fearless, proud in conscious worth,
Till strong temptation, in some fatal time,
Assails the heart, and wins the soul to crime,
When left by honour, and by sorrow spent,
Unused to pray, unable to repent,
The nobler powers, that once exalted high
Th' aspiring man, shall then degraded lie:
Reason, through anguish, shall her throne forsake,
And strength of mind but stronger madness make.
When Edward Shore had reach'd his twentieth

year,
He felt his bosom light, his conscience clear;
Applause at school the youthful hero gain'd,
And trials there with manly strength sustain'd:
With prospects bright upon the world he came,
Pure love of virtue, strong desire of fame:
Men watch'd the way his lofty mind would take,
And all foretold the progress he would make.
Boast of these friends, to older men a guide,
Proud of his parts, but gracious in his pride;
He bore a gay good-nature in his face,
And in his air were dignity and grace;
Dress that became his state and years he wore,
And sense and spirit shone in Edward Shore.
Thus, while admiring friends the Youth beheld,
His own disgust their forward hopes repell'd;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Idylls of the King: The Last Tournament (excerpt)

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round,
At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall.
And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand,
And from the crown thereof a carcanet
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize
Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday,
Came Tristram, saying, "Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?"

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once
Far down beneath a winding wall of rock
Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead.
From roots like some black coil of carven snakes,
Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid air
Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree
Rush'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind
Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest,
This ruby necklace thrice around her neck,
And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought
A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took,
Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen
But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms
Received, and after loved it tenderly,
And named it Nestling; so forgot herself
A moment, and her cares; till that young life
Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold
Past from her; and in time the carcanet
Vext her with plaintive memories of the child:
So she, delivering it to Arthur, said,
"Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence,
And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize."

To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne
Dead nestling, and this honour after death,
Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone
Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn,
And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear."

"Would rather you had let them fall," she cried,
"Plunge and be lost--ill-fated as they were,
A bitterness to me!--ye look amazed,
Not knowing they were lost as soon as given--
Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out
Above the river--that unhappy child
Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go
With these rich jewels, seeing that they came
Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer,

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Find The Humor in It

There are those who profess,
The same aging miseries.
As if to keep them possessed,
Makes their complaints more acceptable.

If I was to say,
I have heard people comment...
About the same agonies today,
They had 'decades' ago...
There would be those believing,
I am finding fresh ways to exaggerate.

There are those who profess,
The same aging miseries.
As if to keep them possessed,
Makes their complaints more acceptable.

I couldn't even embellish this stuff,
To find the humor in it!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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How Is It Possible

How is it possible to lay blame,
And not profess to be near...
To claim involvement?
How is it possible to own reactions...
But not invest any knowledge,
Of participating in the created unrest?
As if that finger pointing,
Is unattached to the one recognizing fault!
How is that done by someone...
Who attacks another for exposing,
An emotion returned that was equally matched!
How is it possible to lay blame,
And not profess to be near...
To claim involvement?
And how can anything be solved,
When someone hurt is on the prowl.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Last Tournament

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round,
At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,
Danced like a withered leaf before the hall.
And toward him from the hall, with harp in hand,
And from the crown thereof a carcanet
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize
Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday,
Came Tristram, saying, `Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?'

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once
Far down beneath a winding wall of rock
Heard a child wail. A stump of oak half-dead,
From roots like some black coil of carven snakes,
Clutched at the crag, and started through mid air
Bearing an eagle's nest: and through the tree
Rushed ever a rainy wind, and through the wind
Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest,
This ruby necklace thrice around her neck,
And all unscarred from beak or talon, brought
A maiden babe; which Arthur pitying took,
Then gave it to his Queen to rear: the Queen
But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms
Received, and after loved it tenderly,
And named it Nestling; so forgot herself
A moment, and her cares; till that young life
Being smitten in mid heaven with mortal cold
Past from her; and in time the carcanet
Vext her with plaintive memories of the child:
So she, delivering it to Arthur, said,
`Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence,
And make them, an thou wilt, a tourney-prize.'

To whom the King, `Peace to thine eagle-borne
Dead nestling, and this honour after death,
Following thy will! but, O my Queen, I muse
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone
Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn,
And Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear.'

`Would rather you had let them fall,' she cried,
`Plunge and be lost-ill-fated as they were,
A bitterness to me!-ye look amazed,
Not knowing they were lost as soon as given-
Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out
Above the river-that unhappy child
Past in her barge: but rosier luck will go
With these rich jewels, seeing that they came
Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer,

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Falling From Grace

As a nation, we’re falling from Grace, down to a much darker place,
As God and His Word are ignored, by many who profess The Lord,
An empty belief, held by them, which Christ did and shall condemn,
As they turn from Truth and Light, embracing wrong instead of right.

Even as the many profess belief, the nation at large, has little relief,
From all those evil hearts and minds, creating darkness of all kinds;
Darkness appears to be everywhere, and no one, it seems to spare,
Touching everyone in some way, as that wickedness colors the day.

Even though Christ reigns above, He impacts not, those I speak of,
As they simply haven’t any fear, of The Lord, Who we hold so dear;
For guidance they’ll never look up, being dark and at times, corrupt,
Being morally on a downhill slide, as God’s Truth by them is denied.

Many suggest that they believe, but, God’s Truth they won’t receive,
As darkness pervades their mind, they leave God’s Truth far behind,
Men who are truly spiritually dead, they continue on that path ahead,
A path into a much darker time, using not God’s but Satan’s design.

All the darkness these men produce, is used by the devil to seduce,
The many lost souls around the world, as more darkness is unfurled,
So souls seek not, The Truth of Christ, or Righteousness in their life,
This, so like Satan, they shall see, only the fiery darkness of eternity.

(Copyright ©05/2010)

poem by Bob Gotti
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It Will Begin

It will begin it the House of God, with The Lord’s Chastening Rod,
Chastening all who profess to be, members of God’s own family,
Believers who claim to behold, God’s Eternal Truths they are told,
So they can live their present life, to lift up The Lord Jesus Christ.

God will begin to sift His Church, affecting all, who weekly perch,
With others to hear God’s Word, but, live as if they haven’t heard,
The life changing truth of Christ, who calls upon all to pay a price,
To become the witness for Him, Who, gave Himself for all our sin.

Yet some men today haven’t heard, Eternal Truths of God’s Word,
This, God says, to our shame, all, who profess the Savior’s name,
But through The Spirit God has sent, we have the power to repent,
To turn and be God’s sacrifice, a living testimony for Jesus Christ.

What today in The Church we see, is Paul’s prophesied Apostasy,
That great spiritual falling away, that we see in the churches today,
As this is what’s to be my friend, before The Judgment in the end,
And those, being led away by sin, must at this time, return to Him.

Soon the time of Grace will close, after He raptures all who chose,
To live their life for God’s praise, being Christ’s light in these days,
With Judgment for all those deceived, all who truly never believed,
The life changing, Word of God, will instead, see Christ’s Iron Rod.

(Copyright ©01/2010)

poem by Bob Gotti
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Maybe A CINO

Friend, are you a CINO faithfully, being a Christian in name only?
Christianity they don’t profess, as The Spirit they don’t possess.
Some, may dare profess a faith, never touched by God’s Grace,
Grace that when it’s received, changes hearts that have believed.

True faith’s more than knowledge of, The Lord who reigns above,
But, a faith that brings to earth, God above, through a New Birth,
Spiritual Birth, bringing into life, as Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,
Who moves upon this earthly sod, in all who truly belong to God.

There are CINOs in every church, weekly in their pews they perch,
Hearing the Word week after week, but His Truth they never seek,
And in their pews they do remain, with a heart in need of change,
Sitting there as they always have, using their faith as just a salve.

So they leave their house of faith, not changed, by God’s Grace,
Still being who they were before, they entered in a church’s door,
And back into their week they go, with very little change to show,
To those on life’s Broader Way, with whom they work day to day.

So all Christians, in only name, can cause Christ hurt and shame,
By their actions, make no mistake, for their benefit, not His sake,
When you see a Godless testimony, it may just be, in name only,
Not a True Christian, please know, but simply a professing CINO.

(Copyright ©11/2009)

poem by Bob Gotti
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It's that day again

Come one, come all and gather round
hear the sound
the story and tale
let not your ears fail
not now, for this is of great importance
Im not looking for acceptance
but for your deliverance
I must save you from what i did
by this vein i must forbid
you to guard your heart, for there is a lurking evil that consumes the young
an evil that rolls off the tongue
is sweet to hear, sweet to the hear, and dear
on this day on this February the thirteenth do not express
your love for someone until you address
this problem, because it's the ideas that are the worst poison
this is what ruins a person
before you profess that love, make certain
that you profess not in vain
for this is the simple trap that ensnares men
its the idea, the idea of her are you blind it's the idea thats trapped you again
Your LOVE is not true, because you are in love the idea of her
and when weeks pass and trials come... she will concur
that your love was imagined, you loved that way she made you feel
the way she held you and made you feel warm, so surreal
but that's not love, you imagined your dream girl
but fell in love with someone else, only to find that all along you loved an idea
that was the object of your love, this idea you made, let your reality unfurl
see past your blindness and see you never loved her and dont make
the mistake that i made, and dont you dare fake
this love, because you feel so lonely, don't settle for less but wait
for your real mate
it's that day, that day i remember, what not to do
now i come to you
to save, redeem, deliver, and expose this wrong this threatens the life
you need not fear if you guard your heart and trust in Him who can be trusted
your First Love, but do not forget that this world is rife
with that temptation to love the idea of a girl, dont get caught busted
the idea is so much more dangerous than the room, and yet it will
beg your love, as you attempt to wait, don't love an idea that is abstract
resist its power to attract
do not let it kill
as it has done to many before
and will do to more a score
tread carefully my friend, for you tread the ground trod by those who fell
in love with ideas so keep not your heart on your sleeve
but guard it in armor and do not tell
a girl that you love her, when you love an idea, don't be naive

poem by David Knox
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Words, Reasons, Even Purposes My Dear

how beautiful it is to have a mastery of words to just be able
to talk so sophisticated at to inspire or so simple as to convey a simple fable
tis a state of being i wish to achieve
and i wish to receive more knowledge...
yet in such a quest
i may not be the best
at it or even my poetry shall i stick to prose?
by no means i dare to stay here in my rhyme
for quite some time
as i write of intrigue, purpose, and the nature of the rose
there's a reason o yes there is
why all my thoughts even intents seem to fizz
and boil over flood out of my mind and stain the page
like carefully crafted words of a pensive and amiable sage
i do not profess to be him... though i may wish it
alas but i must continue to rant about this very dark pit
sorry that i digressed, but the reason is this mission,
and the mission is my purpose and job
my mission is not only to be in submission
but also not to sob
to profess what i know true
to dream dream yet even in trail and tribulation not be blue
my purpose simple yet vague and ambiguous hiding from me
i think it is help others happily
i seem to focus much on 'me' and not on who
i should be focused on, sometime i count my problems one, two
and forget my duty
to serve and most of all to save or at the very least plant a seed, its so sooty
when facing a problem alone i know the feeling therefore i will help
i will do it all stolidly ignoring pain as to not let out a yelp
yet i happily do it showing all empathy, and understanding and consoling
not controlling
the one that i reach out my helping hand to
if you call upon me it may even extend to you...
I'm sorry i truly am i need to truly fix myself now
there is not time to ask how
i will do it i won't forget my duty again yes sir yes maim, i will follow it to the letter
i will follow it and even pass this fetter placed on me i will follow it past the pain
past the temptation to let endurance wain!
i will not forget my job and hopefully
i can do just a little good just a little purpose just for me

poem by David Knox
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Tale XI

ARABELLA.

Of a fair town where Doctor Rack was guide,
His only daughter was the boast and pride -
Wise Arabella, yet not wise alone,
She like a bright and polish'd brilliant shone;
Her father own'd her for his prop and stay,
Able to guide, yet willing to obey;
Pleased with her learning while discourse could

please,
And with her love in languor and disease:
To every mother were her virtues known,
And to their daughters as a pattern shown;
Who in her youth had all that age requires,
And with her prudence all that youth admires:
These odious praises made the damsels try
Not to obtain such merits, but deny;
For, whatsoever wise mammas might say,
To guide a daughter, this was not the way;
From such applause disdain and anger rise,
And envy lives where emulation dies.
In all his strength contends the noble horse
With one who just precedes him on the course,
But when the rival flies too far before,
His spirit fails, and he attempts no more.
This reasoning Maid, above her sex's dread,
Had dared to read, and dared to say she read;
Not the last novel, not the new-born play;
Not the mere trash and scandal of the day;
But (though her young companions felt the shock)
She studied Berkeley, Bacon, Hobbes and Locke:
Her mind within the maze of history dwelt,
And of the moral Muse the beauty felt;
The merits of the Roman page she knew,
And could converse with More and Montague:
Thus she became the wonder of the town,
From that she reap'd, to that she gave renown;
And strangers coming, all were taught t'admire
The learned lady, and the lofty spire.
Thus fame in public fix'd the Maid where all
Might throw their darts, and see the idol fall:
A hundred arrows came with vengeance keen,
From tongues envenom'd, and from arms unseen;
A thousand eyes were fix'd upon the place,
That, if she fell, she might not fly disgrace:
But malice vainly throws the poison'd dart,
Unless our frailty shows the peccant part;
And Arabella still preserved her name
Untouch'd, and shone with undisputed fame;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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An ideas and idealism

Ideas and idealism doesn’t go together
There is constnt clash and always bother
What we think and do does not match
We leave he essence and and irrelevance catch

It is befooling the human race
There is no solirary case
It is practicised often and in defiance
It may be seen with variance

We appreciate the nonsense value of idealism
There is nothing such as realism
It lacks strength and wisdom
Such traversary is witnessed seldom

What do we profess and pracise different?
That lie is seen with eyes and is apprent
No one can claim it never existed?
Botth the things have never co-existed

One has to be given good bye
It is not worth or possible try
It can’t take us for too long
We can be proved any time liar and wrong

It becomes good opratory to profess
There is enough mastery to deceive and confess
One may become very clever and famous
He may not loose composure and look nervous

He may cleverly move with idealism
He may loudly come out with optimism
There won’t be any room for passimism
This is skill he may show to world for defeatism

Nothing last forever as lies do
This may not prove long time as true
Idea and idealism are conterary things
It has no relevence to prove something

We may like to present rosy picture
It may be seen and observed as bight future
It may prove oddysy and rare possibility
What can be seen later as non-reliability

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Mistrust and fear

It will be too much to talk like parrot
So many things are to be talked about
It is not the fact that people are not aware
But they are afraid and don’t dare

We live amidst mistrust and fear
Life, we take, as thorny path to bear
We look with suspicious eyes
With little difficulties we loose courage and cry

Some of the best principles don’t help at right time
They are very nicely said but remain closed sometimes
Everybody may rush to us to offer with some kind words
With the advice not to dishearten and look forward

It has remained customary gesture in our day to day dealing
We are very much sure how kindly person needs healing?
We have, now days, become double edged face to deal with
With all lies from top to bottom and armed with teeth

As charity begins from home
it must always be welcome
To be honest is one thing
And to profess is different or something

It will be better to practice
Not to profess or advise
At the last our behavior may count
People may not listen to anything about

Can any one claim today of in possession?
The traditional high values without any obsession
Advocate one thing on hand and act contrary
It all matters today and pointed out as unnecessary

It is highly appreciated if some values are projected
With little deviation but strongly advocated
It may create little awareness with no cost
It is moral ethics and needed most

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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New dimension

I fully agree with discarding the "ism"
Not disregarding totally their "ism"
As it has remained age old tradition
To confine with one and only condition

We are no authority to malign
Not to force any one to align
Wrap up in our thoughts
Some of the lessons forcibly taught

Let individual sticks to his own belief
Trust and profess that gives him relief
For worldly worries and tension
So it will be worthless for anything to mention

Yes nationalism has something greater role
Unity is must among population for honest call
To Breath for universal love and to profess
The kind of "ism" that has not been heard on surface

Love for country by people is understandable
But blind faith and "ism" for forcing others is condemnable
Here comes point of conflict where it assumes significance
Then it can't be discarded outright or at once

In my opinion there is greater role for humanism
This "ism" is holier than any other "ism"
It is not folly and should not be considered as such wholly
It is above all "isms" and so to be considered holy

No clever argument can push this "ism" in corner
It has to be realized sooner or later
Some of the intelligent people try to create confusion
It comes not out of pity but just out of infusion

Think of immense relief reaching to affected people
From all corners of world to the people in trouble
No religion or "ism" tag for rendering assistance
It is human face that is rushing without taking any chance

It is certainly not a new dogma
It is like fountain and flora
It flows from human heart with new dimension
Just waiting to show its class with worthless mention

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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It Is Enjoyed

Just because some things are made to look easy,
Doesn't mean they are.
Because someone enjoys what they do...
Does not mean it is easy for them.
It is enjoyed...
And that is the difference.

There are those who do things and complain.
It may be something simple.
But still their attitudes remain the same.

And there are those who profess to 'like' something...
But the want someone to show them how it is done.
In fact...
If they can find someone to do it for them,
The need for work has been overcomed.

And yet there are those who do things just for a dollar.
That is all they do things for!
And the more money they make...
The more they profess a thing they do is enjoyed!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Through Crooked Teeth

Some will shift their pity,
To replace it with a guilt.
And with their magnified denials,
Will profess innocence.
And defy!
And try...
To hide.

Some become committed,
To forgetting what it is...
That is done to another,
With a blank look they give...
To defy.
And try...
To hide.

Provokers love to lie,
To keep things heated up quick.
And do,
Through crooked teeth.
And bite,
The backs of anyone...
Who seeks to see them beaten,
With eyes...
Opened up wide,
To lies.

Some will shift their pity,
To replace it with guilt.
And with their magnified denials,
Will profess innocence.
But...
The ones who will defeat them,
Have eyes opened wide...
To lies.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To Seem Detached From Stress

I admit to feeling honored.
And also repeatedly blessed.
To have someone like you,
Make comments...
About those confessions I profess,
And express with an openness...
To seem detached from stress.

I am not always as secure,
As I seem when attempting to impress.
I just feel what I say comes from an honesty.
And being true to myself,
Sometimes has created my own loneliness...
That has left me with moments of distressed.

I admit to feeling honored.
And also repeatedly blessed.
To have someone like you,
Make comments...
About those confessions I profess,
That expresses an openness...
To seem detached from stress.

But I am not that different,
From those wishing more...
And not less,
Of those moments I regret...
To have a happiness,
That will leave me to be...
Feeling free to be at my best.

Without experiencing an aloneness,
Through what is felt at times...
An unwinding road confined,
To a wilderness...
That sits inside,
Of an inquisitive mind.
Traveling as it does without any sign of rest.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Being human has its side effects (read the small print)

Where are the great myths of our age –
hiding truth within their all too human stories?
In their absence, scientific research
has wondrous tales yet to tell…

Jon, the renowned professor of psychology
and not averse to self-examination and experiment,
took Paxil – Prozac’s cousin – for eight
adventurous weeks.

In week five – ‘the world changed’…
his heavy work load, his insecurities
as an untenured professor,
vanished like magic; changes which he’d wished
to make for himself for years,
happened overnight – he loosened up,
he lightened up, he accepted his mistakes
and did not dwell on them –
who would not want to be a Prof like he?

But… a side effect: names began to elude him –
‘Hi! ’ and ‘Hi there! ’ were all his students got
out on campus, in the morning classroom …
and along with that, the subterfuges –
how can you ask a student whom you’ve known for years
to give their opinion… er, point, smile,
hope they’re watching.. yes, you…

and facts too started to recede –
just out of reach on the top shelf of
the mind’s rich library, memory’s repository…

Greek tragedy would have a word,
a scene, a moral, for it:
the Fates had claimed their own…
Nemesis had struck; Icarus’ wings had melted,
Prometheus’ insult to the gods avenged…

or in our scientific terms, a brain on Paxil, Prozac,
has more serotonin in certain synapses,
so the neurons fire more often…

The celebrated young Professor
stopped taking the pills; five weeks later,
the memory returned; as did the worries
(security of tenure threatened even more
by Professors who can’t even remember
what they profess to profess…) .

Mnemosyne, goddess of memory,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto II

THE ARGUMENT

The Saints engage in fierce Contests
About their Carnal interests;
To share their sacrilegious Preys,
According to their Rates of Grace;
Their various Frenzies to reform,
When Cromwel left them in a Storm
Till, in th' Effigy of Rumps, the Rabble
Burns all their Grandees of the Cabal.

THE learned write, an insect breeze
Is but a mungrel prince of bees,
That falls before a storm on cows,
And stings the founders of his house;
From whose corrupted flesh that breed
Of vermin did at first proceed.
So e're the storm of war broke out,
Religion spawn'd a various rout
Of petulant Capricious sects,
The maggots of corrupted texts,
That first run all religion down,
And after ev'ry swarm its own.
For as the Persian Magi once
Upon their mothers got their sons,
That were incapable t' enjoy
That empire any other way;
So PRESBYTER begot the other
Upon the good old Cause, his mother,
Then bore then like the Devil's dam,
Whose son and husband are the same.
And yet no nat'ral tie of blood
Nor int'rest for the common good
Cou'd, when their profits interfer'd,
Get quarter for each other's beard.
For when they thriv'd, they never fadg'd,
But only by the ears engag'd:
Like dogs that snarl about a bone,
And play together when they've none,
As by their truest characters,
Their constant actions, plainly appears.
Rebellion now began, for lack
Of zeal and plunders to grow slack;
The Cause and covenant to lessen,
And Providence to b' out of season:
For now there was no more to purchase
O' th' King's Revenue, and the Churches,
But all divided, shar'd, and gone,
That us'd to urge the Brethren on;
Which forc'd the stubborn'st for the Cause,

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poem by Samuel Butler
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