To charm their vanquisht Souls, that the Success }
Might look like Conscience, though 'tis nothing less. }

For this Design no Head nor Tongue so well,
As that of the profound _Achitophel_.
How, great _Achitophel_! his Hand, his Tongue!
_Babylons_ Mortal Foe; he who so long
With haughty Sullenness, and scornful Lowr,
Had loath'd false Gods, and Arbitrary pow'r.
'Gainst _Baal_ no Combatant more fierce than he;
For _Israels_ asserted Liberty,
No Man more bold; with generous Rage enflam'd,
Against the old ensnaring Test declaim'd.
Beside, he bore a most peculiar Hate
To sleeping Pilots, all Earth-clods of State.
None more abhorr'd the Sycophant Buffoon,
And Parasite, th'excrescence of a Throne;
Creatures who their creating Sun disgrace,
A Brood more abject than _Niles_ Slime-born Race.
Such was the Brave _Achitophel_; a Mind,
(If but the Heart and Face were of a kind)
So far from being by one base Thought deprav'd,
That sure half ten such Souls had _Sodom_ sav'd.
Here _Baals_ Cabal _Achitophel_ survey'd,
And dasht with wonder, half despairing said,
Is this the Hand that _Absolon_ must Crown,
The Founder of his Temples, Palace, Throne?
This, This the mighty Convert we must make?
Gods, h'has a Soul not all our Arts can shake.