But thou, the pander of the people's hearts, O crooked soul, and serpentine in arts, Whose blandishments a loyal land have whored, And broke the bonds she plighted to her lord; What curses on thy blasted name will fall! 260 Which age to age their legacy shall call; For all must curse the woes that must descend on all. Religion thou hast none: thy mercury Has pass'd through every sect, or theirs through thee. But what thou giv'st, that venom still remains, And the pox'd nation feels thee in their brains. What else inspires the tongues and swells the breasts Of all thy bellowing renegado priests, That preach up thee for God, dispense thy laws, And with thy stum ferment their fainting cause? 270 Fresh fumes of madness raise; and toil and sweat To make the formidable cripple great. Yet, should thy crimes succeed, should lawless power Compass those ends thy greedy hopes devour, Thy canting friends thy mortal foes would be, Thy God and theirs will never long agree; For thine, if thou hast any, must be one That lets the world and human kind alone: A jolly god that passes hours too well To promise heaven, or threaten us with hell; 280 That unconcern'd can at rebellion sit, And wink at crimes he did himself commit. A tyrant theirs; the heaven their priesthood paints A conventicle of gloomy, sullen saints; A heaven like Bedlam, slovenly and sad, Foredoom'd for souls with false religion mad.