Amongst bad men be rank'd the worst; May he be still himself, and still Go on in vice, and perfect ill; May his broad crimes each day increase, Till he can't live, nor die in peace; 220 May he be plunged so deep in shame, That Satan mayn't endure his name, And hear, scarce crawling on the earth, His children curse him for their birth; May Liberty, beyond the grave, Ordain him to be still a slave, Grant him what here he most requires, And damn him with his own desires! But should some villain, in support And zeal for a despairing court, 230 Placing in craft his confidence, And making honour a pretence To do a deed of deepest shame, Whilst filthy lucre is his aim; Should such a wretch, with sword or knife, Contrive to practise 'gainst the life Of one who, honour'd through the land, For Freedom made a glorious stand; Whose chief, perhaps his only crime, Is (if plain Truth at such a time 240 May dare her sentiments to tell) That he his country loves too well: May he--but words are all too weak The feelings of my heart to speak-- May he--oh for a noble curse, Which might his very marrow pierce!-- The general contempt engage, And be the Martin of his age! BOOK II. Deep in the bosom of a wood, Out of the road, a Temple[135] stood: Ancient, and much the worse for wear, It call'd aloud for quick repair, And, tottering from side to side, Menaced destruction far and wide; Nor able seem'd, unless made stronger, To hold out four or five years longer. Four hundred pillars, from the ground Rising in order, most unsound, 10 Some rotten to the heart, aloof Seem'd to support the tottering roof, But, to inspection nearer laid, Instead of giving, wanted aid. The structure, rare and curious, made By men most famous in their trade, A work of years, admired by all, Was suffer'd into dust to fall; Or, just to make it hang together, And keep off the effects of weather, 20 Was patch'd and patch'd from time to time By wretches, whom it were a crime, A crime, which Art would treason hold To mention with those names of old. Builders, who had the pile survey'd, And those not Flitcrofts[136] in their trade, Doubted (the wise hand in a doubt Merely, sometimes, to hand her out) Whether (like churches in a brief[137], Taught wisely to obtain relief 30 Through Chancery, who gives her fees To this and other charities) It must not, in all parts unsound, Be ripp'd, and pull'd down to the ground; Whether (though after ages ne'er Shall raise a building to compare) Art, if they should their art employ, Meant to preserve, might not destroy; As human bodies, worn away, Batter'd and hasting to decay, 40 Bidding the power of Art despair, Cannot those very medicines bear, Which, and which only, can restore, And make them healthy as before.