"You must, and know your _own_ Damnation's near: You must ere long be _Plung'd_ in Grizly Flame, Which I shall laugh to see, tho, rack'd with pain Thou _Grand Deceiver_ of the _Nations_ All, Contriver of my _Wretched Fate_ and _Fall_: Thou who didst push me on to Murther _Kings_ Persuading me for it on _Angels Wings_ I should _Transcend_ the Clouds, be _ever Blest_, ) And be of _Al_ that Heav'n cou'd yield, _possest_, ) But these I mist, got _Torment_ without _Rest_: ) For whilst on _Earth_ I stand, a _Hell_ within Distracts my Conscience, pale with horrid Sin: Instead of _Mortals_ Pardon, _One_ on High, I must your Everlasting Martyr Fry; Whilst Name of _Saint_ I bear on Earth, _below_ It _stirs_ the _flames_, and much Augments _my Woe_." POPE. "_Horrors! 'tis Dismal, I can hear no more, O! Hell and Furies, how I have lost my Pow'r._" SIR E. GODFREY. "See Sir this Crimson Stain, this baleful Wound See Murther'd me, with _Joys Eternal_ Crown'd; Though by the _Darkest Deed_ of Night I fell, Which _shook Three Kingdoms_, and _Astonish'd Hell_: Yet rap'd _above_ the Skyes to Mansion bright, There to Converse with Everlasting Light; Thence got I leave to View thy _Wretched Face_, And find my Death thy Hell-born PLOTS did race, And next to the _Almighty Arm_ did _Save_ Great _Albion's_ Glory from its yawning Grave; From _Sacred Bliss_ my Swift-_Wing'd Soul_ did glide, Conducted _Hither_ by my _Angel-Guide_, To let thee know thy Sands were almost run, And that thy Thread of _Life_ is well-nigh Spun; _Repent_ you then, Wash off the _Bloody Stain_, Or _You'll_ be Doom'd to _Everlasting Pain_." ANGEL. "Come Worthy _of Seraphick Joys Above_, Worthy _Our_ Converse, and _Our Sacred_ Love; Who hast Implor'd the Great _Jehove_ for One ) Who _Shed_ thy Blood, to _Snatch_ thy Princes _Throne_ ) In this thy _Saviour's_ Great Examples shown: ) Come let _Vs_ hence, and leave _Him_ to his Fate, When _Divine Vengeance_ shall the Business State." POPE. "_Chill Horror seizes me, I cannot flye; Oh Ghastly! yet more Apparitions nigh?_" WHITEBREAD. "Thus wandering through the _Gloomy Shades_, at last I've found _Thee_, Traytor, that _my Joys_ did Blast, Whose _Dam'd Injunctions_, _Dire Damnation_ Seal'd, And _Torments_ that were never yet Reveal'd: Mirrihords of _Plagues_, _Chains_, _Racks_, Tempestuous _Fire_, Sulpherian _Lakes_ that Burn and ner Expire, Deformed _Demons_, Uglier far than Hell, The Half what _We Endure_, no Tongue can _Tell_; This for a _Bishoprick_ I Undergo, But _Now_ would give Earth's _Empire_ wer't _not so_." POPE. "_Retire, Good Ghosts, or I shall Dye with Fear._" HARCOURT.