And now the Chappel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the Pride of Pray'r:
Light Quirks of Musick, broken and uneven,
Make the Soul dance upon a Jig to Heaven.
On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the Saints of  or
On gilded Clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your Eye.
To Rest, the Cushion, and soft  invite,
Who never mentions Hell to Ears polite.