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.