'Gainst _Israel_ still their private Engines play'd.
And their dire Machinations to fulfil,
Their stings torn out, they kept their poyson still.
And now too weak in open force to joyn,
In close Cabals they hatcht a damn'd Design,
To light that Mine as should the world amaze,
And set the ruin'd _Israel_ in a blaze.

When _Judahs_ Monarch with his Princes round,
Amidst his glorious Sanedrim sate Crown'd,
Beneath his Throne a Cavern low, and dark
As their black Souls, for the great Work they mark.
In this lone Cell their Midnight-Hands bestow'd
A _Stygian_ Compound, a combustive load
Of Mixture wondrous, Execution dire,
Ready the Touch of their Infernal Fire.
Have you not seen in yon æthereal Road,
How at the Rage of th'angry driving God,
Beneath the pressure of his furious wheels
The Heav'ns all rattle, and the Globe all reels?
So does this Thunder's Ape its lightning play,
Keen as Heav'ns Fires, and scarce less swift than they.
A short-liv'd glaring Murderer it flies, }
In Times least pulse, a Moments wing'd surprize; }
'Tis born, looks big, talks lowd, breaths death, and dies. }
This Mixture was th'Invention of a Priest;
The Sulphurous Ingredients all the best
Of Hells own growth: for to dire Compounds still
Hell finds the Minerals, and the Priest the Skill.