Or that it best with his dear Muse did sute,
Who was for hire a very Prostitute.
The rising Sun this Poets God did seem,
Which made him tune's old Harp to praise _Eliakim_.
_Bibbai_, whose name won't in Oblivion rot,
For his great pains to hide the _Baalites_ Plot,
Must be remembred here: A Scribe was he,
Who daily damn'd in Prose the _Pharisee_.
With the Sectarian _Jews_ he kept great stir;
Did almost all, but his dear self, abhor.
What his Religion was, no one could tell;
And it was thought he knew himself not well:
Yet Conscience did pretend, and did abuse,
Under the notion of Sectarian _Jews_,
All that he thought, or all that did but seem
Foes to _Baal_'s Rites, _Eliakim_, and him.
He was a man of a pernicious Wit
For railing, biting, and for mischief fit:
He never slept, yet ever in a Dream;
Religion, Law, and State, was all his Theam.
On these he wrote in _Earnest_ and in _Jeast_,
Till he grew mad, and turn'd into a Beast,
_Zattue_ his Zanie was, Buffoon, and Fool,
Who turn'd Religion into Ridicule:
Jeer'd at the Plot, did _Sanhedrims_ abuse,
Mock'd Magistrates, damn'd all Sects of the _Jews_.
Of little Manners, and of lesser Brains;
Yet to embroil the State, took wondrous pains.
In jeasting still his little Talent lay;
At _Hushai_ scoft in's witless grinning way.