Levi, thou art a load, I'll lay thee down,
And thew rebellion bare, without a gown;
Poor flaves in metre, dull and addle-pated,
Who rhime below ev'n David's pfalms tranflated,
Some in my speedy pace I must out-run,
As lame Mephibofheth the wifard's fon:
To make quick way I'll leap o'er heavy blocks,
Shun rotten Uzza as I would the pox;
And haften Og and Doeg to rehearse,

Two fools that crutch their feeble fenfe on verfe;
Who by my mufe to all fucceeding times,
Shall live in fpight of their own dogrel rhimes.
Doeg, tho' without knowing how or why,
Made ftill a blund'ring kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly on, and dafh'd thro' thick and thin,
Through fense and nonsense, never out nor in;
Free from all meaning, whether good or bad,
And in one word, heroically mad:

He was too warm on picking-work to dwell,
But fagotted his notions as they fell,

And if they rhim'd and rattled, all was well,
Spiteful he is not, tho' he wrote a fatire,
For till there goes fome thinking to ill-nature:
He needs no more than birds and beafts to think,
All his occafions are to eat and drink.

If he call rogue and rafcal from a garrat,
He means you no more mifchief than a parrat:
The words for friend and foe alike were made,
To fetter 'em in verfe is all his trade.

For almonds he'll cry whore to his own mother:
And call young Abfalom king David's brother.
Let him be gallows-free by my confent,
And nothing fuffer fince he nothing meant;
Hanging fuppofes human foul and reafon,
This animal's below committing treafon :
Shall he be hang'd who never could rebel?
That's a preferment for Achitophel.

The woman that committed buggary,
Was rightly fentenc'd by the law to die;
But 'twas hard fate that to the gallows led
The dog that never heard the ftatute read.
Railing in other men may be a crime,
But ought to pass for mere inftinct in him:
Inftinct he follows and no farther knows,
For to write verse with him is to transprose.
"Twere pity treafon at his door to lay,

Who makes heaven's gate a lock to its own key:
Let him rail on, let his invective mufe
Have four and twenty letters to abuse,
Which, if he jumbles to one line of fenfe,
Indict him of a capital offence.

In fire-works give him leave to vent his fpite,
Those are the only ferpents he can write;
The height of his ambition is, we know,
But to be matter of a puppet-fhow,
On that one stage his works may yet appear,
And a month's harvest keeps him all the year.
Now ftop your nofes, readers, all and fome,
For here's a tun of midnight-work to come,
Og from a treafon-tavern rowling home.
Round as a globe, and liquor'd every chink,
Goodly and great he fails behind his link;
With all this bulk there's nothing loft in Og,
For every inch that is not fool is rogue:
A monftrous mafs of foul corrupted matter,
As all the devils had spew'd to make the batter,
When wine has giv'n him courage to blafpheme,
He curfes God, but God before curft him;
And if man could have reafon, none has more,
That made his paunch fo rich and him fo poor.
With wealth he was not trufted, for heav'n knew
What 'twas of old to pamper up a Jew;
To what would he on quail and pheafant fwell,
That even on tripe and carrion could rebel?

}

But tho' heaven made him poor, with rev'rence speaking,
He never was a poet of God's making;

The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull,
With this prophetic bleffing-be thou dull;
Drink, fwear and roar, forbear no lewd delight
Fit for thy bulk, do any thing but write:
Thou art of lafting make, like thoughtless men,
A strong nativity-but for the
pen;
Eat opium, mingle arfenick in thy drink,
Still thou may'ft live, avoiding pen and ink.
I fee, I fee, 'tis counsel given in vain,

For treason botcht in rhime will be thy bane,
Rhime 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 pfalm of his will furely be thy laft.

Dar'st thou prefume in verse to meet thy foes,
Thou whom the penny pamphlet foil'd in profe?
Doeg, whom God for mankind's mirth has made,
O'er-tops thy talent in thy very trade;

Doeg to thee, thy paintings are fo coarse,
A poet is, tho' 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:
Hadft thou the glories of thy king expreft,
Thy praises had been fatire at the best;
But thou in clumsy verse, unlickt, unpointed,
Haft fhamefully defy'd 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 bleffing be,
To talk like Doeg, and to write like thee.'
Vol. I.

M

Achitophel

Achitophel each rank, degree, and age, For various ends neglects not to engage;

The wife and rich for purfe and counfel brought,
The fools and beggars for their number fought:
Who yet not only on the town depends,
For even in court the faction had its friends;
Thefe thought the places they poffeft too fmall,
And in their hearts wifht court and king to fall:
Whose names the muse difdaining, holds i' th' dark,
Thruft in the villain herd without a mark;
With parafites and libel-fpawning imps,
Intriguing fops, dull jefters, and worse pimps.
Difdain the rafcal rabble to purfue,

Their fet cabals are yet a viler crew;

See where involv'd in common smoak they fit;
Some for our mirth, fome for our fatire fit:
These gloomy, thoughtful, and on mifchief bent,
While thofe for mere good fellowship frequent.
Th' appointed club, can let fedition pass,
Senfe, nonfenfe, any thing to employ the glafs;
And who believe in their dull honeft hearts,
The reft talk treafon but to fhew their parts;
Who ne'er had wit or will for mischief yet,
But pleas'd to be reputed of a fet.

But in the facred annals of our plot,
Industrious AROD never be forgot:
The labours of this midnight-magiftrate,
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 dang'rous weapon, gold.
And last, to take from Jebufites all odds,
Their altars pillag'd, ftole their very gods;
Oft would he cry, when treasure he furpriz'd,
'Tis Baalifh gold in David's coin difguis'd.
Which to his houfe with richer reliques came,
While lumber idols only fed the flame:

For

For our wife rabble ne'er took pains t'enquire,

What 'twas he burnt, fo't made a roufing fire.
With which our elder was enricht no more
Than falfe Gehazi with the Syrian's ftore;
So poor, that when our chufing-tribes were met,
Ev'n for his stinking votes he ran in debt;
For meat the wicked, and as authors think,
The faints he chous'd for his electing drink;
Thus ev'ry shift and subtle method past,

And all to be no Zaken at the last.

Now, rais'd on Tyre's fad ruins, Pharaoh's pride
Soar'd high, his legions threatning far and wide;
As when a batt'ring ftorm ingendred high,
By winds upheld, hangs hov'ring in the sky,
Is gaz'd upon by ev'ry trembling fwain,
This for his vineyard fears, and that his grain;
For blooming plants, and flow'rs new opening, thefe
For lambs yean'd lately, and far-lab'ring bees:
To guard his ftock each to the gods does call,
Uncertain where the fire-charg'd clouds will fall:
Ev'n fo the doubtful nations watch his arms,
With terror each expecting his alarms.

Where, Judah, where was now thy lyon's roar?
Thou only couldft the captive lands reftore;
But thou, with inbred broils and faction preft,
From Egypt need'ft a guardian with the reft.
Thy prince from fanhedrims no trust allow'd,
Too much the reprefenters of the croud,
Who for their own defence give no fupply,
But what the crown's prerogatives muft buy:
As if their monarch's rights to violate.
More needful were, than to preserve the ftate!
From prefent dangers they divert their care,
And all their fears are of the royal heir;
Whom now the reigning malice of his foes,

Unjudg'd would fentence, and e'er crown'd depofe.