Then with out-stretched claws his Eyes He _twisted_ diff'rent ways--the _Skies_ Are watch'd by _one_, and (strange to tell!) The _other_ is the Guard of _Hell_. Then thus--"'Tis fit thy Eyes shou'd roll, _Cross_ as the purpose of thy Soul, Fit that they look a diff'rent way, Like what You _do_, and what You _say_; Thy _Eye-balls_ now are pois'd and hung, As even as thy _Heart_ and _Tongue_-- Prosper--to _me_, to _Hell_ (he cried) Be true, but false to all beside. _Riches are mine_--I will repay For ev'ry Soul you lead astray-- Give out thyself a Light to shew Which way 'tis best to Heav'n to go; But lead the Pilgrims wrong, and shine An _Ignis fatuus_ of mine-- Draw them thro' bog, thro' brake, thro' mire, I'll dry them at a _rousing Fire_." _Magus_ complacent smil'd--his Eyes Twinkled with signs of Joy, one flies Upward, and t'other down, like Scales, Where this ascends, when that prevails-- Then _thrice_ he turn'd upon his heel, And swore Allegiance to the _De'el_-- Right faithfully his _Oath_ he kept, And might each Night before he slept Boast of his labours to maintain, And spread abroad his _Master_'s Reign; Might boast the magic of his Rod To whip away the _Love of God_, For all of _God_ he makes appear Has nought to _love_, but all to _fear_. That debt, which _Gratitude_ each day Paying, wou'd still own much to pay; Instead of _Duty_ freely paid, A _Tyrant_'s _hard Exaction_'s made. Fitted the simple to cajole, First of his Wits, and then his Soul, He urges fifty false Pretences, Preaching his Hearers from their Senses. He knows his _Master_'s Realm so well, His Sermons are a _Map of Hell_, An _Ollio_ made of _Conflagration_, Of _Gulphs of Brimstone_, and _Damnation_, _Eternal Torments_, _Furnace_, _Worm_, _Hell-Fire_, a _Whirlwind_, and a _Storm_, With _Mammon_, _Satan_, and _Perdition_, And _Beelzebub_ to help the Dish on; _Belial_ and _Lucifer_, and all The _nick-Names_ which _old Nick_ we call-- But he has ta'en especial care, To have nor _Sense_ nor _Reason_ there. A thousand scorching Words beside, Over his tongue as glibly slide, Familiar as a glass of wine, Or a Tobacco-pipe on mine; That You wou'd swear he was compleater, Than _Powell_, as a _Fire-Eater_.