Whilst his kind Murd'rer's but his Exorcist.
Here draw, bold Painter, (if thy Pencil dare
Unshaking write, what _Israel_ quak'd to hear,)
A Royal Altar pregnant with a Load
Of Humane Bones beneath a Breaden God.
Altars so rich not _Molocks_ Temples show;
'Twas Heaven above, and _Golgotha_ below.
Yet are not all the Mystick Rites yet done:
Their pious Fury does not stop so soon.
But to pursue the loud-tongu'd Wounds they gave,
Resolves to stab his Fame beyond the Grave,
And in Eternal Infamy to brand
With _Amnons_ Murder, _Amnons_ righteous Hand.
Here with a Bloodless wound, by Hellish Art,
With his own Sword they goar his Lifeless Heart.
Thus in a Ditch the butcher'd _Amnon_ lay,
A Deed of Night enough to have kept back the Day.
Had not the Sun in Sacred vengeance rose,
Asham'd to see, but prouder to disclose,
Warm'd with new Fires, with all his posting speed,
Brought Heav'ns bright Lamp to shew th'Infernal Deed.

What art thou, Church! when Faith to propagate,
And crush all Bars that stop thy growing state,
Thou break'st through Natures, Gods, and Humane Laws,
Whilst Murder's Merit in a Churches Cause.
How much thy Ladder _Jacobs_ does excel:
Whose Top's in Heaven like His, but Foot in Hell;
Thy Causes bloody Champions to befriend,
For Fiends to Mount, as Angels to Descend.