Two hundred thousand Butcher'd Victims shar'd
One common doom: No Sex nor Age was spar'd:
Not kneeling Beauties Tears, not Virgins Cries,
Nor Infants Smiles: No prey so small but dies.
Alas, the hard-mouth'd Blood-hound, Zeal, bites through;
Religion hunts, and hungry Jaws pursue.
To what strange Rage is Superstition driven,
That Man can outdo Hell to fight for Heav'n!
So Rebel _Geshur_ fought: so drown'd in gore,
Even Mother Earth blusht at the Sons she bore;
And still asham'd of her old staining Brand,
Her Head shrinks down and Quagmires half their Land.
Yet not this blow _Baals_ Empire could enlarge
For _Israel_ still was Heav'ns peculiar charge:
Unshaken still in all this Scene of Blood,
Truths Temple firm on Golden Columns stood.
Whilst _Sauls_ Revenging Arm proud _Geshur_ scourg'd,
From their rank soyl their _Hydra's_ poyson purg'd.

Yet does not here their vanquish'd spleen give o're,
But as untir'd, and restless as before,
Still through whole waiting Ages they outdo
At once the Chimists pains and patience too.
Who though he sees his bursting Limbecks crack,
And at one blast, one fatal Minutes wrack,
The forward Hopes of sweating years expire;
With sad, yet painful hand new lights his Fire:
Pale, lean, and wan, does Health, Wealth, all consume;
Yet for the great Elixir still to come,
Toyls and hopes on. No less their Plottings cease;