We read of kings and gods that kindly took 
A pitcher fill'd with water from the brook ; 
But I have daily tender'd without thanks 
Rivers of tears that overflow their banks. 
A slaughter'd bull will appease angry Jove, 
A horse the Sun, a lamb the god of love, 
But she disdains the spotless sacrifice 
Of a pure heart, that at her altar lies. 
Vesta is not displeased, if her chaste urn 
Do with repaired fuel ever burn ; 
But my saint frowns, though to her honour'd 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 daily worship her, 
Yet she consumes her own idolater. 
Of such a goddess no times leave record, 
That burnt the temple where she was adored.