Crvelty
We read of Kings, and Gods that kindly took
A Pitcher fill’d with Water from the Brook.
But I have dayly tendred without thanks,
Rivers of tears that overflow their banks.
A slaughtred Bull will appease angry Jove,
A Horse the Sun, a Lamb the God of Love.
But she disdains the spotlesse sacrifice
Of a pure heart that at her Altar lyes:
Vesta [i]’s not displeas’d if her chaste Urn
Doe with repaired fuell ever burn;
But my Saint frowns, though to her honoured name
I consecrate a never dying flame:
Th’ Assyrian King did none i th’ furnace throw,
But those that to his Image did not bow:
With bended knees I dayly worship her,
Yet she consumes her own Idolater.
Of such a Goddesse no times leave record,
That burnt the Temple where she was ador’d.