God bids Him Reign, and you should bid Them Bleed.
'Tis true, as Heav'ns Elected Flock, you may
For his Conversion, and your Safety _pray_
But Pray'rs are all. To Disinherit him,
The very Thought, nay, Word it self's a Crime.
For that's the MEANS of Safety: but forbear,
For Means are Impious in the Sons of Pray'r.
To Miracles alone your Safety owe;
And _Abrahams_ Angel wait to stop the Blow.
Yes, what if his polluted Throne be strowd
With Sacriledge, Idolatry, and Blood;
And 'tis you mount him there; you're innocent still:
For he's a King, and Kings can do no ill.
Oh Royal Birthright, 'tis a Sacred Name:
Rowze then _Achitophel_, rowze up for shame:
Let not this Lethargy thy Soul benum;
But wake, and save the Godlike _Absolom_.
And to reward thee for a Deed so great
Glut thy Desires, thy full-crown'd wishes meet,
Be with accumulated Honours blest,
And grasp a STAR t'adorn thy shining Crest.

_Achitophel_ before his Eyes could ope,
Dreamt of an Ephod, Mitre, and a Cope.
Those visionary Robes t'his Eyes appear'd:
For Priestly all was the great Sense he heard.
But Priest or Prophet, Right Divine, or all
Together; 'twas not at their feebler call,
'Twas at the _Star_ he wak'd; the _Star_ but nam'd,
Flasht in his Eyes, and his rowz'd Soul enflam'd.