And what if now like old _Elisha_ fed,
To praise the Sooty Bird that brought 'em Bread,
In pure acknowledgment, though in despight
Of their own sense, they paint the Raven White.

_Achitophel_ charm'd with kind Fortunes Smiles,
Flusht with Success, now glows for bolder Toyls.
Great Wits perverted greatest Mischiefs hold,
As poysonous Vapors spring from Mines of Gold.
And proud to see himself with Triumph blest,
Thus to great _Absolom_ himself addrest.

Illustrious Terrour of the World, all hayle:
For ever like your Conquering Self prevaile.
In spight of Malice in full Luster shine;
Be your each Action, Word, and Look Divine,
Nay, though our Altars you've so long forborne;
To your derided Foes Defeat, and Scorne,
For your Renown we have those Trumpets found,
Shall ev'n this Deed your highest Glory sound.
That spight of the ill-judging Worlds mistake,
Your Soul still owns those Temples you forsake:
Onely by all-commanding Honour driven,
This self-denial you have made with Heav'n:
Quitting our Altars, cause the Insolence
Of prophane Sanedrims has driven you thence.
A Prince his Faith to such low Slaves reveal!
'Twas Treason though to God to bid You kneel.
And what though senseless barking Murmurers scold, }
And with a Rage too blasphemously bold, }