High-born in _Israel_, one _Michals_ Priest,
But now in _Babylons_ proud Scarlet drest.
'Tis to his Hands the Plotting Mandats come
Subscrib'd by the Apostate _Absolom_.
Nay, and to keep themselves all danger-proof,
That none might track the _Belial_ by his Hoof,
Their Correspondence veil'd from prying Eyes,
In Hieroglyphick Figures they disguise.
Husht as the Night, in which their Plots combin'd,
And silent as the Graves they had design'd,
Their Ripening Mischiefs to perfection sprung.
But oh! the much-loath'd _David_ lives too long.
Their Vultures cannot mount but from his Tomb;
And with too hungry ravenous Gorges come,
To be by airy Expectation fed.
No Prey, no Spoil, before they see Him Dead.
Yes, Dead; the Royal Sands too slowly pass,
And therefore they're resolved to break the Glass:
And to ensure Times tardy dubious Call,
Decree their Daggers should his Sythe forestall.
For th'execrable Deed a Hireling Crew
Their Hell and They pick out; whom to make true,
An Oath of Force so exquisite they frame,
Sworn in the Blood of _Israels_ Paschal Lamb.
If false, the Vengeance of that Sword that slew
_Egypts_ First-born, their perjur'd Heads pursue.
Strong was the Oath, the Imprecation dire;
And for a Viand, lest their Guilt should tire,
With promis'd Paradice they cheer their way;
And bold's the Souldier who has Heav'n his pay.