His words the saintly synod fill’d with rage, Nor felt they reverence for his rank or age; But with ungovernable fury big, Call’d him Apostate, Protestant, and Whig. Calm and composed, their cries awhile he bore, Nor deign’d to make defence, nor utter’d more, But, casting off his veil, naked he stood, And TRUTH’s resplendent form abash’d they view’d. SUCCESSION. After a bad oft comes a worse; Evil on evil, curse on curse: So James to Charles succeeds, who fitter? Of a French Popish mother’s litter This was the next and favourite whelp; He with Judge Jefferies’s help, A fell-fang’d lurcher, hot for blood, The gallant Algernon pursued; Hamper’d him basely in a Coop, Then ran him down, and cried whoo-whoop! But though so fierce to treat this man ill, His Jesuits used him like a spaniel; Rated him soundly, or carest, As served their ends and purpose best, Which not long after to his cost He felt, his crown and kingdom lost. Ev’n then these Masters gave not o’er, But taught him lessons as before; How he might render Heaven his debtor, And earn another crown and better: Told him, ’twas highly meritorious To exalt the Pope, and kill old Glorious: That what he did t’avenge his Father, He might do for himself, and rather. So with his Priests and his Assassins, By machinations, plots, compassings, He struggled long against hard odds To advance the Devil’s cause and God’s. Hopeless at last, his means all spent, He died a Murderer and a Saint. EPIGRAM. Ille Crucem sceleris pretium tulit, Hic Diadema. Good people of England, ’tis fit you should note What you get, or may suffer, for bribing a vote; And for an example we’ll bring to your view An Irish Lord and a Baronet Jew; The Jew and my Lord in a similar case— One pays a great fine, t’other holds a great place: My Lord is bedeck’d with a Ribbon and Garter, The Jew is in Jail for two years, lack a quarter. And now we’ll compare, if you please to allow us, The Jew in his Jail, with my Lord in the House: The Jew is surrounded by Felons and Debtors, And my Lord by some folks who are little their betters. ON THE INCREASE OF HUMAN LIFE. Fate deals out human life by seven-year spaces: Time was you would be thought in her good graces With nine of these; when David lived ’twas ten; If more She gave, ’twas only now and then, A few cold years of winter, and the last, Tho’ charged with toil and sorrow, quickly past. But in our age more bounteous Fate appears, And often grants a dozen-fold seven years; Nay, be but still and temperate like the Quakers, Perhaps she’ll make your dozen up a baker’s. ODE TO THE KING OF FRANCE. 1823. What moves thee, Louis, to forego The quiet of thy peaceful reign? Why challenge a reluctant foe, Rushing to war, war unprovoked, again? Examine well thine own estate, And check thy hostile march before it be too late.