In fireworks give him leave to vent his spite,
Those are the only serpents he can write;
The height of his ambition is, we know,
But to be master of a puppet-show;
On that one stage his works may yet appear,
And a month's harvest keep him all the year.
Now stop your noses, readers, all and some,
For here's a tun of midnight-work to come,
Og from a treason-tavern rolling home.
Round as a globe, and liquor'd every chink,
Goodly and great, he sails behind his link;
With all this bulk there's nothing lost in Og,
For every inch that is not fool, is rogue :
A monstrous mass of foul corrupted matter,
As all the devils had spew'd to make the batter.
When wine has given him courage to blaspheme,
He curses God; but God before cursed him:
And if man could have reason, none has more,
That made his paunch so rich and him so poor.
With wealth he was not trusted, for Heaven knew
What 'twas of old to pamper up a Jew ;
To what would he on quail and pheasant swell,
That e'en on tripe and carrion could rebel?
But though Heaven made him poor, with reverence
speaking
He never was a poet of God's making;
The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull,
With this prophetic blessing- Be thou dull;
Drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight
Fit for thy bulk; do any thing but write:
Thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men;
A strong nativity-but for the pen !
Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink,
Still thou mayst live, avoiding pen and ink.'
see, I see 'tis counsel given in vain,
For treason botch'd in rhyme will be thy bane; Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck; "Tis fatal to thy fame, and to thy neck.
Why should thy metre good King David blast? A psalm of his will surely be thy last.
Darest thou presume in verse to meet thy foes,
Thou, whom the Penny-Pamphlet foil'd in prose?
Doeg, whom God for mankind's mirth has made,
O'ertops thy talent in thy very trade:
Doeg to thee, thy paintings are so coarse,
A poet is, though he's the poet's horse.
A double noose thou on thy neck dost pull,
For writing treason, and for writing dull :
To die for faction is a common evil,
But to be hang'd for nonsense, is the devil.
Hadst thou the glories of thy king express'd,
Thy praises had been satire at the best;
But thou, in clumsy verse, unlick'd, unpointed,
Hast shamefully defied the Lord's anointed.
I will not rake the dunghill of thy crimes,
For who would read thy life that reads thy rhymes?
But of King David's foes be this the doom,
May all be like the young man Absalom ;
And for my foes, may this their blessing be,
To talk like Doeg, and to write like thee.]
Achitophel each rank, degree, and age,
For various ends neglects not to engage;
The wise and rich for purse and counsel brought,
The fools and beggars for their number sought;
Who yet-not only on the Town depends,
For even in Court the faction had its friends;
These thought the places they possess'd too small,
And, in their hearts, wish'd Court and King to fall;
ANNAIOM AND ACHITOPHEL. wanded sims and clamorous crowds thus press'd,
As set the righteous David's breast! Cox at how to oppose or to comply, No, and dangerous to deny!
s dark juncture Israel's fate,
que sole expedient could create.
the extremest virtue did require.
ace whose downtal there
Javid does with tears
pass Bir age: undaunted
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444 se apused to winis and ◄
> < tacuiuilig with be wares J❤ Saulių ldüger in the wars
མཔང་ནམེར ནྟི :ཐོང་བཅོང་ལ་ཁང
Go, injured hero, while propitious gales,
Soft as thy consort's breath, inspire thy sails;
Well may she trust her beauties on a flood
Where thy triumphant fleets so oft have rode!
Safe on thy breast reclined, her rest be deep,
Rock'd like a nereid by the waves asleep ;
While happiest dreams her fancy entertain,
And to Elysian fields convert the main!
Go, injured hero, while the shores of Tyre
At thy approach so silent shall admire,
Who on thy thunder still their thoughts employ,
And greet thy landing with a trembling joy.
On heroes thus the prophet's fate is thrown,
Admired by every nation but their own;
Yet while our factious Jews his worth deny,
Their aching conscience gives their tongue the lie.
E'en in the worst of men the noblest parts
Confess him, and he triumphs in their hearts,
Whom to his king the best respects commend
Of subject, soldier, kinsman, prince, and friend;
All sacred names of most divine esteem,
And to perfection all sustain❜d by him;
Wise, just, and constant, courtly without art,
Swift to discern, and to reward desert ;
No hour of his in fruitless ease destroy'd,
But on the noblest subjects still employ'd ;
Whose steady soul ne'er learn'd to separate
Between his monarch's interest and the state,
But heaps those blessings on the royal head,
Which he well knows must be on subjects shed.
On what pretence 'could then the vulgar rage
Against his worth and native rights engage?
Religious fears their argument are made,
Religious fears his sacred rights invade!
Whose names the Muse disdaining, holds i' the'
Thrust in the villain-herd without a mark; [dark,
With parasites and libel-spawning imps,
Intriguing fops, dull jesters, and worse pimps.
Disdain the rascal rabble to pursue,
Their set cabals are yet a viler crew;
See where involved in common smoke they sit,
Some for our mirth, some for our satire fit;
These gloomy, thoughtful, and on mischief bent,
While those for mere good fellowship frequent
The' appointed club, can let sedition pass,
Sense, nonsense, any thing, to' employ the glass;
And who believe in their dull honest hearts,
The rest talk treason but to show their parts;
Who ne'er had wit or will for mischief yet,
But pleased to be reputed of a set.
But in the sacred annals of our plot,
Industrious Arod never be forgot;
The labours of this midnight magistrate
May vie with Corah's, to preserve the state:
In search of arms he fail'd not to lay hold
On War's most powerful, dangerous weapon, gold;
And last, to take from Jebusites all odds,
Their altars pillaged, stole their very gods.
Oft would he cry, when treasure he surprised,
'Tis Baalish gold in David's coin disguised;
Which to his house with richer relics came,
While lumber idols only fed the flame :
For our wise rabble ne'er took pains to' inquire
What 'twas he burn'd, so 't made a rousing fire.
With which our elder was enrich'd no more
Than false Gehazi with the Syrian's store;
So poor, that when our choosing-tribes were met,
E'en for his stinking votes he ran in debt;
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