Absolon's IX Worthies: OR, A KEY to a late BOOK or POEM, Entituled A. B. & A. C.

AChitophel led on the black Forlorn,
Villain, that only was for mischief born.
Who happy might have been before his Tomb,
If's Sire had never Tapp'd his Mothers Womb.
Next Zimri, Banckrupt of Wit, and Pence,
Prov'd Jew by's Circumcised Evidence.
T' enjoy his Cosbi, He her Husband kill'd;
The rest 'oth story waits to be fulfill'd.
Then kind Uriah Junior whose distress'd
Lady the beauteous Absalon caress'd.
So like in Head, in Heart, in Mind and Will,
T'was thought by some, they both had piss'd in a Quill.
The next Priapus-Balaam, of whom 'tis said,
His Brains did lye more in his Tail than's Head;
Sprouted of Royal Stem in ancient dayes,
'Tis an ill Bird that his own Nest bewrayes.
Chast Caleb next whose chill embraces charm
Women to Ice, was yet in Treason warm;
O'th ancient Race of Jewish Nobles come,
Whose Title never lay in Christendome.
Then Prophane Nadab, that hates all Sacred things
And on that score abominateth Kings.
With Mahomet Wine he damneth; with intent
T'erect his Paschal-Lambs-Wool-Sacrament.
Ungrateful Jonas next to Nineveh
Plead's Treason gratis, that's without his Fee;
Which he n'eer did before for King or Clown:
That got most by't, yet most disgrac'd the Crown.
Shimei that Curses all that he should love,
That hates all Kings, and Gods because above.
Whose kinder Fasces spares Dissenters Backs,
Though he long since would fain have us'd the Axe.
Last Corah, unexhausted mine of Plots,
Incredible to all but Knaves and Sots.
He surely may for a new Sampson pass,
That kills so sure with Jawbone of an Ass.

To the Author of that incomparable POEM above mentioned.

Homer amaz'd resigns the Hill to you,
And stands i'th Crowd amidst the panting Crew.
Virgil and Horace dare not shew their Face,
And long admired Juv'nal quits his place;
For this one mighty Poem hath done more
Than all those Poets could have done before.
Satyr or Statesman, Poet or Divine,
Thou any thing, Thou every thing that's fine.
Thy Lines will make young Absolon relent,
And though 'tis hard Achitophel repent.
And stop—as thou has done.—
Thus once thy Rival muse on Cooper's Hill,
With the true story wou'd not Fatina Kill.
No Politicks exclude repentance quite,
Despair makes Rebels obstinately fight.
'Tis well when Errors do for Mercy call,
Unbloody Conquests are the best of all.
Methinks I see a numerous mixed Croud
Of seduc'd Patriots crying out aloud
For Grace to Godlike David. He with Tears
Holds forth his Scepter to prevent their Fears.
And bids them welcome to his tender Breast:
Thus may the People, thus the King be blest.
Then tunes his Harp, thy Praises to rehearse,
Who owes his Son and Subjects to thy Verse.

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