He made a _Talmud_ on his Muses score;
Though hop'd few Criticks will its _Genius_ carp,
So purely Metaphors King _David_'s Harp,
And by a soft Encomium, near at hand,
Shews _Bathsheba_ Embrac'd throughout the Land.
But this Judaick Paraphrastick Sport
We'll leave unto the ridling Smile of Court.
Good Heav'n! What timeful Pains can Rhymers take,
When they'd for Crowds of Men much Pen-plot make?
Which long-Beak'd Tales and filch'd Allusions brings,
As much like Truth, as 'tis the Woodcock sings.
What else could move this Poet to purloin
So many _Jews_, to please the _English_ Swine?
Or was it that his Brains might next dispense
To adapt himself a Royal Evidence?
Or that he'd find for _Dugdale_'s Wash some Spell,
In stead of once more dipp'd in _Winifred_'s Well;
And ope his Budget, like _Pandora_'s Box,
Whence Overt-acts more _Protestants_ should Pox,
Which might the Joyner's Ghost provoke to rise,
And fright such Tales with other _Popish_ Lies?
But _Starr's_ or _Ignoramus_'s may not give
Those Swearers longer swinge by Oaths to live.
A Providence much _English_ Good protects,
And sends Testees to Trade for new Effects;
Which none of the Long-Robe, 'tis hop'd, can aid,
So well by Oaths the Devil's already paid;
And most suppose, if e're both Plots can die,
Or eat up one anothers Perjury,
'Twou'd _Pluto_ strangely pose to find a Third,