Kind Patriot, who to plant us Banks of Flow'rs,
With purling Streams, cool Shades, and Summer Bow'rs,
His Ages needful Rest away does fling,
Exhausts his Autumn to adorn our Spring:
Whilst his last hours in Toyls and Storms are hurl'd,
And onely to enrich th'inheriting World.
Thus prodigally throws his Lifes short span,
To play his Countries generous Pelican.
But oh, that all-be-devill'd Paper, fram'd
No doubt, in Hell; that Mass of Treason damn'd;
By _Esau_'s Hands, and _Jacobs_ Voice disclos'd;
And timely to th' Abhorring World expos'd.
Nay, what's more wondrous, this wast-paper Tool,
A nameless, unsubscrib'd, and useless scrowl,
Was, by a Politician great in Fame,
(His Chains foreseen a Month before they came)
Preserv'd on purpose, by his prudent care,
To brand his Soul, and ev'n his Life ensnare.
But then the Geshuritish Troop, well-Oath'd,
And for the sprucer Face, well-fed, and Cloath'd.
These to the Bar Obedient Swearers go,
With all the Wind their manag'd Lungs can blow.
So have I seen from Bellows brazen Snout,
The Breath drawn in, and by th'same Hand squeez'd out.
But helping Oaths may innocently fly,
When in a Faith where dying Vows can lye.
Were Treason and Democracie his Ends,
Why was't not prov'd by his Revolting Friends?
Why did not th'Oaths of his once-great Colleagues,
_Achitophel_ and the rest prove his Intreagues?