The dreadful'st Foe their Engines must subdue, The strongest Rock through which their Arts must hew, Was great _Barzillai_: could they reach his Head, Their Fears all husht, they had strook Danger dead. That second _Moses_-Guide resolv'd to free Our _Israel_ from her threatning Slavery, Idolatry and Chains; both from the Rods Of _Pharoh_-Masters, and _Egyptian_ Gods: And from that Wilderness of Errour freed, Where Dogstars scorch, and killing Serpents breed: That _Israels_ Liberty and Truth may grow, The _Canaan_ whence our Milk and Honey flow. Such our _Barzillai_; but _Barzillai_ too, With _Moses_ Fate does _Moses_ Zeal pursue: Leads to that Bliss which his own Silver Hairs Shall never reach, Rich onely to his Heirs. 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? Why at the Bar appear'd such sordid scum, And all those Nobler Tongues of Honour dumb? Could he his Plots t'his great Allies conceal, He durst to leaky Starving Wretches tell; Such Ignorant Princes, and such knowing Slaves; His _Babel_ building Tools from such poor Knaves. Were he that Monster his new Foes would make Th'unreasoning World beleive, his Soul so black, That they in Conscience did his Side forego, Knowing him guilty they could prove him so. Then 'twas not Conscience made 'em change their side. Or if they knew, yet did his Treasons hide; In not exposing his detested Crime, They're greater Monsters than they dare think Him. Are these the Proselites renown'd so high, Converts to Duty, Honour, Loyalty? Poorly they change, who in their change stand mute: Converts to Truth ought Falsehood to confute. To conquering Truth, they but small glory give, Who turn to God, yet let the Dagon live.