RISE Nevil, Rise, and do not punish me,
With the vain sight of your Idolatry.
You may with equal Reason call upon
The good Saint Icarus or Phaeton,
Who do the Sacred Name deserve as far,
As some who Blush in Roman Kalendar:
With like Ambition I design'd to know
No other Triumphs but of things below;
And rather labour'd how there might be given,
French Crowns, postponing all the Crowns of Heaven.
Favour'd in this, because kind Heaven declines
My high Intrigues, and baffles my Designs.
None with more covetous Zeal pursu'd our Cause,
Or fell a more due Sacrifice to Laws.
In that sad Day when strangled Life Expir'd,
And the just flames my bloody Limbs requir'd,
Whilst my hot Soul in hasty flight retires,
From Tyburns only Purgatory Fires.
Immortal shapes crowd on in Troops to view,
My Plotting Soul and stopt me as I flew,
Such Spirits who Incarnate ever mov'd
In their By-Paths, and never quiet lov'd.
The Cunning Machiavel drew near and fear'd,
Screek't at the sight of me and disapeard.
Shewing how weak all human Plotts are laid,
Where Hopes and Souls have always been betray'd.
Scylla and Marius wondring at our Crimes,
Pittied the near misfortune of our times,
Sigh'd at those streams of blood which were to run,
And curst our Tables of Proscription.
Fierce Catiline our Villany decry'd,
To whom the bold Cethegus soon reply'd,
How New Rome imitates and yet exceeds
In dire Conspiracies our puny deeds!
Great Caesars Ghost with Envy lookt on me,
That for Romes sake I aim'd at more than he,
To Conquer all the Isles of Britanny,
Yet blam'd the Cruelties which were to come,
From that Dictator which now Reigns at Rome.
Spiritual Dictator! who more controuls
Than he, and claps his Fetters on our Souls?
He told me Old Romes Walls had longer stood,
If Romulus had spar'd his Brothers blood.
And that Romes happiness grew alwaies worse,
When it resembled the fierce Wolf its Nurse.
Ah, my good Friend, how clearly do I find,
In this new State the faults of human kind.
Nothing procures so high a Place above,
As universal Charity and Love,
Infus'd and manag'd by the Heavenly Dove.
Heav'n is a quiet Kingdom which we call
Your injur'd Scriptures true Original.
There no false Comments on the Text appear,
Nor must Trents Spurious Council domineer.
Sometime with me, Dear Nevil, you must grant,
The Church Triumphant to be Protestant.
If against them on Earth Romes malice thrives,
'Tis not Romes Cause prevails, but their ill Lives.
So Babylon of old vext Israel,
And wicked Men raise Enemies from Hell.
As once on Earth I did your good attend,
So now for Love I am your Ghostly Friend:
Let your Soul hate all bloody ways and things,
To subvert States and Laws, to murther Kings.
Or you are sure to equal my disgrace,
And without Mercy, you may name your place.

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