Making God witness to a lie, Blaspheming heaven and earth for pelf, And hanging friends[133] to save thyself: Thou son of Chance! whose glorious soul On the four aces doom'd to roll, Was never yet with Honour caught, Nor on poor Virtue lost one thought; 70 Who dost thy wife, thy children set, Thy all, upon a single bet, Risking, the desperate stake to try, Here and hereafter on a die; Who, thy own private fortune lost, Dost game on at thy country's cost, And, grown expert in sharping rules, First fool'd thyself, now prey'st on fools: Thou noble gamester! whose high place Gives too much credit to disgrace; 80 Who, with the motion of a die, Dost make a mighty island fly-- The sums, I mean, of good French gold For which a mighty island sold; Who dost betray intelligence, Abuse the dearest confidence, And, private fortune to create, Most falsely play the game of state; Who dost within the Alley sport Sums which might beggar a whole court, 90 And make us bankrupts all, if Care, With good Earl Talbot,[134] was not there: Thou daring infidel! whom pride And sin have drawn from Reason's side; Who, fearing his avengeful rod, Dost wish not to believe a God; Whose hope is founded on a plan Which should distract the soul of man, And make him curse his abject birth; Whose hope is, once return'd to earth, 100 There to lie down, for worms a feast, To rot and perish like a beast; Who dost, of punishment afraid, And by thy crimes a coward made, To every generous soul a curse Than Hell and all her torments worse, When crawling to thy latter end, Call on Destruction as a friend, Choosing to crumble into dust Rather than rise, though rise you must: 110 Thou hypocrite! who dost profane, And take the patriot's name in vain; Then most thy country's foe, when most Of love and loyalty you boast; Who, for the love of filthy gold, Thy friend, thy king, thy God hast sold, And, mocking the just claim of Hell, Were bidders found, thyself wouldst sell: Ye villains! of whatever name, Whatever rank, to whom the claim 120 Of Hell is certain, on whose lids That worm, which never dies, forbids Sweet sleep to fall, come, and behold, Whilst envy makes your blood run cold, Behold, by pitiless Conscience led, So Justice wills, that holy bed Where Peace her full dominion keeps, And Innocence with Holland sleeps. Bid Terror, posting on the wind, Affray the spirits of mankind; 130 Bid Earthquakes, heaving for a vent, Rive their concealing continent, And, forcing an untimely birth Through the vast bowels of the earth, Endeavour, in her monstrous womb, At once all Nature to entomb; Bid all that's horrible and dire, All that man hates and fears, conspire To make night hideous as they can, Still is thy sleep, thou virtuous man! 140