Presumptuous grown, unfit was held For their dark councils, and expell'd, Since in the day her business might Be done as safe as in the night. Her eye down-bending to the ground, Planning some dark and deadly wound, 60 Holding a dagger, on which stood, All fresh and reeking, drops of blood, Bearing a lantern, which of yore, By Treason borrow'd, Guy Fawkes bore, By which, since they improved in trade, Excisemen have their lanterns made, Assassination, her whole mind Blood-thirsting, on her arm reclined; Death, grinning, at her elbow stood, And held forth instruments of blood,-- 70 Vile instruments, which cowards choose, But men of honour dare not use; Around, his Lordship and his Grace, Both qualified for such a place, With many a Forbes, and many a Dun,[142] Each a resolved, and pious son, Wait her high bidding; each prepared, As she around her orders shared, Proof 'gainst remorse, to run, to fly, And bid the destined victim die, 80 Posting on Villany's black wing, Whether he patriot is, or king. Oppression,--willing to appear An object of our love, not fear, Or, at the most, a reverend awe To breed, usurp'd the garb of Law. A book she held, on which her eyes Were deeply fix'd, whence seem'd to rise Joy in her breast; a book, of might Most wonderful, which black to white 90 Could turn, and without help of laws, Could make the worse the better cause. She read, by flattering hopes deceived; She wish'd, and what she wish'd, believed, To make that book for ever stand The rule of wrong through all the land; On the back, fair and worthy note, At large was Magna Charta wrote; But turn your eye within, and read, A bitter lesson, Norton's Creed. 100 Ready, e'en with a look, to run, Fast as the coursers of the sun, To worry Virtue, at her hand Two half-starved greyhounds took their stand. A curious model, cut in wood, Of a most ancient castle stood Full in her view; the gates were barr'd, And soldiers on the watch kept guard; In the front, openly, in black Was wrote, The Tower: but on the back, 110 Mark'd with a secretary's seal, In bloody letters, The Bastile.[143] Around a table, fully bent On mischief of most black intent, Deeply determined that their reign Might longer last, to work the bane Of one firm patriot, whose heart, tied To Honour, all their power defied, And brought those actions into light They wish'd to have conceal'd in night, 120 Begot, born, bred to infamy, A privy-council sat of three: Great were their names, of high repute And favour through the land of Bute. The first[144] (entitled to the place Of Honour both by gown and grace, Who never let occasion slip To take right-hand of fellowship, And was so proud, that should he meet The twelve apostles in the street, 130